The Open Secret
by Willa Dedalus
Summary: Exiled from Downton Abbey over a scandal, Lady Mary Crawley is ruined. Meanwhile Matthew Crawley has lived a content life in Manchester with his parents, Dr. Reginald Crawley and Isobel Crawley. Before the Earl of Grantham changed his life, his eldest daughter did. An AU story in a different place with different results; created by Willa Dedalus and Apollo888.
1. Chapter 1

_"The Open Secret – the secret that lies open to all, but is seen into and understood by only few."_

_-Thomas Carlyle_

* * *

_**Manchester Royal Infirmary, Manchester, England, April 1912**_

* * *

Matthew groaned. He tried desperately to hold it back, to keep it deep within his chest, but it burst forward as sensation shot through him. He swallowed and gasped, gulping air into his lungs desperately, his breathing loud and ragged.

"Darling," she laughed seductively. "You must be quiet. Someone could hear us and come in!"

Matthew groaned again. Her weight on top of him was warm and comforting, a delightful reminder that she was here with him, that this was real and not yet another fantasy running through his imagination. His hips moved of their own accord, responding to her light touch, his body yearning for her almost as fiercely as his heart did.

She kissed his cheek, then his shoulder and ran her tongue along his chest, her hand continuing its firm hold on him. His legs shook, his muscles tensing as the dull ache in his body flared sharply into an electric burst.

He ran his hands from her hair down across the silk covering her back. His fingers clawed at her skirt, pulling it up her legs as she kept him trapped beneath her.

"So impatient, Matthew," she drawled in his ear.

Her free hand moved down to cover one of his. She smiled against his skin as she guided his hand beneath her skirt to her knickers.

"Go on, then," she teased him, smiling as his fingers shook when they came into contact with the light silk covering her bottom.

Growling at her boldness, he pushed the garment down her hips, feeling heat radiating off of her as their exposed skin caressed each other.

"Please," he croaked, turning his head to kiss her fiercely.

She returned his kiss, her hands moving up to dance lightly through his blond hair.

When she pulled back and looked down at him, he gazed lovingly up at her dark eyes and swollen lips. What they were doing was quite shocking and forbidden, but their shared desire was so strong that nothing else mattered. It had been like this between them from the very beginning. He had always had a vague idea about what it would feel like to be with a woman. He had notions and beliefs regarding the proper way of doing things and behaving. She had obliterated all of that, thrown his world asunder, and though their conduct was rather startling, he was indescribably grateful for it.

She leaned down and kissed his neck, pressing her breasts against him and feeling him wrap his arms around her waist.

"Yes, Matthew," she breathed into his ear.

The mattress creaked as he turned them over, pulling her leg across his waist as he pushed her onto her back. Her arms encircled his shoulders and she cradled his head against her hair as she opened herself to him.

Matthew breathed out as they joined, his heart soaring as he heard her sigh and clutch him closer. All thoughts of teasing her and prolonging their bliss were entirely set aside as he began to move with her. She kissed his cheek, her hands splaying across his back, pulling him, urging him, and encouraging him to increase his pace.

She grit her teeth as she reached her limit, her cries of pleasure reduced to soft whimpers as she fought to contain the desire to scream at the delirium overpowering her. Matthew followed soon after, grabbing handfuls of the bed sheet beneath her as he stilled himself, his body tensing as he gave in to a moment he only knew with her, would only ever want to know with her.

Matthew kept his weight balanced on his arms, refusing to collapse on top of her. She ran her hand through his damp hair and pulled him back down towards her. She kissed him softly and he rolled them over again so he was on his back and she could curl into him, resting her head in the crook of his chest and shoulder.

Their sharp breathing slowed and their heartbeats returned to normal. He kissed her forehead several times, running his hand along her back, idly staring down at her in beautiful happiness.

"I have to get back to work," she smiled. "Your mother will wonder where I've gone to."

"I would very much appreciate it," he said in a low voice. "If you did not mention Mother so soon after what we've just done."

Her laugh was sultry and tickled his chest pleasantly.

"Would you prefer if your father found out how we are using this spare room then?" she teased.

Matthew groaned.

"They wouldn't hold you responsible, they adore you," he laughed. "I, on the other hand, would be branded a seducer, and may find myself the subject of a new surgical technique."

"Well, we can't have that," she replied. "I'd like to keep you in one piece, thank you."

"As you wish," he smiled, pulling her into a kiss.

"Don't you have to go back to work?" she smiled at him, resting her chin on his chest and looking at him playfully.

"I took the rest of the afternoon off. My desk was clear," he smiled. "And I thought I would take you to dinner after your shift was done."

"I get dinner as well?" she asked mischievously. "Why, aren't you the gallant one?"

"I know how much effort is required to keep you interested, my Lady," he retorted.

"Make yourself presentable and come seek me out in another hour. I should be done by then," she smiled.

She rose gracefully from the bed and smoothed out her skirt. She buttoned her blouse and picked up her apron from the ground, looking at him pointedly as she tied it back in place.

Matthew sat up and pulled her down for another kiss. She slapped at him lightly and kissed him back, pecking him three times on the lips before pulling away.

"You'll make me late!" she scolded him.

He reached out and took her hands in his, squeezing them and smiling up at her.

"I love you, Mary," he beamed.

"I know you do," she smirked. She kissed him again before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.

* * *

_**Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, April 1912**_

* * *

Robert Crawley, Seventh Earl of Grantham, read his newspaper in silence. His daughters, Edith and Sybil, were quietly eating their breakfast and were seated at the far end of the table. They were not permitted to sit closer as a matter of decorum and instruction from their Cousin James, who was continually imposing his often tyrannical proclamations on the family. Young ladies should sit away from the adults, James ordered. There was no need for them to overhear the serious business discussed at the other end of the table, and so they should always be a respectable distance away. The order reeked of snobbery and paranoia, but the girls were powerless against it. They had learned long ago that their father could offer little defense.

Ever since the unfortunate incident, James had grown more bold and domineering, and Robert had retreated, allowing his Cousin free reign in most matters, and guarding his objections carefully. This morning, Edith and Sybil were grateful for having the Morning Room to themselves. With Cousin James and Cousin Patrick away, they could at least enjoy breakfast without fear of being chastised or worse.

As Robert turned the page of the paper, he sighed audibly. He motioned for the butler, Carson, who came immediately to his side. Although Carson was by no means elderly, he seemed to have aged significantly in the last year. There was a sad spectre haunting his steps, although he would always vehemently deny it.

"What is it, Papa?" Sybil asked tentatively as Robert murmured instructions to the butler. Edith shook her head. Sybil was always the bold and fearless one, not caring what other people thought of her.

Lord Grantham's face creased and he frowned down the table at Sybil. Edith shot her little sister a discouraging look, a plea for her to hush. However, as Carson departed from the room, Sybil raised her voice once more.

"Is it news about the _Titanic_?"

Robert sighed and set his cup of tea on the saucer. He placed his folded newspaper down and drummed his fingers on the table nervously.

"Yes, my dear," Robert answered, slightly agitated. "Of course it is about the Titanic. Nothing else is in the news these days. First it was rumours and now it seems some of it is true. I just hope for all of our sakes that James and Patrick survived this horrendous nightmare."

Sybil's eyes widened. While Edith took the time to consider what their Papa had said, Sybil forged ahead, a single thought entering her mind.

"Papa, you should write to Mary and let her know this news!" Sybil said quickly.

Robert's gaze grew cold. Edith blinked and looked down at her breakfast plate. How could Sybil be so foolish?

"No," Lord Grantham said curtly. He turned his attention to the family dog, Pharaoh, who sat by his feet. Robert scratched the dog's ears and stroked his neat and clean fur.

"But, Papa," Sybil said emotionally, undeterred by his rebuke. "This is a very serious matter for our family. Mary needs to know, surely?"

Robert rose from his chair, his paper neatly tucked under his arm.

"My dear girl," he said as he passed by her chair without stopping.

"Mary isn't family," he declared, his voice filled with venom.

Sybil's mouth fell open and she watched in shock as Robert Crawley, Seventh Earl of Grantham, left the room without another word.

* * *

_**Trafford Restaurant at the Midland Hotel, Manchester, England, April 1912**_

* * *

Matthew glanced about his surroundings, the bustle of the breakfast service all around him. He smiled. He truly loved this restaurant. It was spread over two floors separating the pub on the lower level from the fine dining room upstairs. The entrance to the restaurant was through the gardens, famous for their strawberries, gooseberries, and various garden herbs; however to enter the pub there was a side door off the street. This separation created a unique harmony, as though there were two different but coexisting worlds between upstairs and downstairs.

The restaurant had large bay windows that overlooked the gardens below, a cinematic view of cascading walls, plants and flowers. And as one walked up the staircase, the dark wood of the lower level gave way to the bright chandeliers and cream and aubergine wallpaper of the upstairs fine dining area. The upstairs not only served excellent food, but offered the intimate privacy that Matthew required. Normally, a man would be rather proud and almost boastful to be meeting a woman at The Trafford. However, when it came to this woman, Matthew knew that nothing was 'normal', and he had grown to rather like that. Having her to himself was quite exciting.

As he waited for his guest, he read over the Manchester Guardian for the sixth time, his brow furrowed in disbelief. It was impossible to understand. The _Titanic_ had sunk on her maiden voyage. Less than a week ago it had left port in Southhampton, the first of what everyone thought would be many triumphant and luxurious journeys across the Atlantic. Now she was gone, the whereabouts of her crew and passengers unknown and presumed lost.

Matthew read over the front page story with a shiver down his spine. He skipped over the vast descriptions about the seemingly unsinkable ship. What did it matter to report the _Titanic_ was eight hundred feet long? Or that she measured forty-six odd tons? Matthew scoffed at the focus on the boat when lives had been lost. He often championed the rights of the people, both personally and professionally as a lawyer. He was outraged that barely a paragraph detailed the extent of the horror for the unfortunate victims. There had not been enough lifeboats, only enough for one-third of the _Titanic_'s total capacity; resulting in catastrophe. Just reading the words, Matthew imagined the many unanswered prayers, and empty cries in the cold Atlantic waters. An unofficial message from Cape Race, Newfoundland, stated that only a hundred and seventy-five have been saved out of two thousand four hundred persons on board.

"Mr. Crawley," the waiter said, interrupting his tumultuous thoughts. "Your guest has arrived."

Matthew looked up and his face brightened as Lady Mary Crawley was escorted to his table. She looked radiant in the new dress he had given her last night. He had thought that the cerulean blue fabric would suit her, and he was extremely pleased to see now that his estimation was correct.

"Thank you Henry," Matthew replied with gratitude, dismissing the waiter with a nod. Matthew rose from his chair and silently helped her be seated. He fought the urge to kiss her cheek, and instead kept a respectable distance as he went back to his chair. Mary gave him a conspiratorial smile.

He smirked as he watched Mary glance about, keeping her mouth shut until the waiter had disappeared and she was certain no one was within ear shot of their window table. It was almost as though she still distrusted everyone around her to be a spy, cataloguing her every movement. Matthew allowed her these idiosyncrasies. He learned long ago not to question her in certain matters.

"Good morning," he said softly.

"Good morning," Mary replied. "I see that you were able to steal away to meet me. You're taking a great risk being seen with me, you know."

"It's entirely worth it," Matthew said confidently, causing Mary to look away and bite her lower lip.

"You look stunning," he continued, dropping his stare before it became inappropriate. He reached over and poured her a cup of tea.

"I think you bought me this dress so that we will colour coordinate," Mary said as she picked up her menu. Her voice sounded like a sharp accusation, but he could decode that she was actually being playful. Her light smirk as she glanced down at the menu confirmed his suspicion.

He smiled as he placed the tea pot back down. "What do you mean?" he asked innocently.

"This dress is the same colour as your eyes," Mary answered, her eyes looking up to meet his briefly.

Matthew smiled at her and raised his eyebrow knowingly.

"That wasn't the source of my inspiration, actually. I'll have you know that your dress is also the same colour as the bedspread in my bedroom," he whispered.

"I know," Mary said lightly, blushing slightly as she lowered her eyes again.

"So then you should also know why I would want your dress to match the bedspread, and contrast nicely with the colour of my bedroom floor, as well," Matthew said, flashing his teeth briefly.

"Matthew," Mary scolded him, her blush deepening. "We're in public!"

"Very well, my Lady," Matthew smirked and busied himself with his own menu.

They paused briefly as Henry returned to take their orders. Matthew ordered for both of them. Mary smiled to herself as he got her order exactly right without her even telling him. They resumed their conversation after the waiter was out of earshot.

"Did you read about the _Titanic_?" Matthew asked as he stirred milk into his tea.

"Yes," Mary responded with seeming disinterest. "It's all anyone talks about, it seems. The _Titanic_, a name derived from Titan in Greek Mythology, which means gigantic."

"Correct me if I'm wrong but didn't your little sister Sybil say in her last letter that your cousins James and Patrick were going to sail on the _Titanic_?" Matthew asked.

Mary's posture grew rigid.

"She may have. The _Titanic_ would be the only ship big enough to suit James and Patrick's egos." The bitterness and contempt in Mary's voice dripped as she was forced to repeat her cousins' names.

"Well," Matthew continued hesitantly. "Shouldn't you write home, given what has happened?"

Mary set her teacup on the saucer. Her hand came up nervously to fiddle with her string of pearls. Although her mannerisms were anxious, when she spoke again, her clipped tone was firm, leaving no room for sentiment.

"Manchester is my home," she said assertively. "There's no need to find out anything more than what I've read in the Guardian."

"Darling," Matthew said quietly. "I understand, truly. But, if something has happened to James and Patrick, you should contact your family. It could change everything. It could mean that…"

"It means nothing. It changes nothing." Mary said quickly, looking at him fiercely. "I mean nothing to them, and they mean even less to me."

Matthew swallowed. His expression softened and he nodded silently.

Mary reached across the table and patted his hand lightly before pulling back.

"Let's please change the topic of discussion," she said. "I'm bored talking about this. I want to spend a lovely morning with you, not waste our time discussing matters a world away that have no significance for us."

"As you wish," Matthew agreed. He was rewarded with the return of Mary's smile as the waiter brought their food to the table.

* * *

A note from the authors: Thanks for reading!

Please review and share your thoughts, impressions, comments and predictions. Share one, share all!


	2. Chapter 2

_**Manchester Royal Infirmary, Manchester, England, May 1912**_

* * *

Mary stood at attention, waiting patiently in the hallway outside one of the shared patients' rooms. Five other nurses stood next to her, scanning the hallway for the arrival of the supervising doctor. Mary's face betrayed nothing. Keeping her cool and her expression neutral were skills she had mastered in childhood. Her colleagues, however, were not nearly as tactful.

"He mentioned the other day that I might be able to assist in a surgery!" one girl said breathlessly.

"You?" came the perplexed reply. "But how? You aren't trained for surgery. None of us are."

"He said I could observe," was the smug answer.

"You do realize that observing means you stand behind a window, don't you? You aren't actually in the operating room with him," the even more smug retort was instantaneous.

In another time, and another place, Mary would have easily shut all of them up in six words or less. In her present reality though, she felt strangely unaffected and disinterested in their banter. She was actually grateful that none of them engaged her in conversation. Lady Mary Crawley not wanting any attention. It was a new world, indeed.

"Ladies," a deep, warm voice called. "My apologies for being late. I'm afraid my only excuse is that I was indulging in some of my wife's homemade cookies and lost track of time. Please forgive me. Now, shall we go in?"

A tall, thin man with graying brown hair walked briskly past them. His beard and mustache were immaculately trimmed, giving him a paternal and distinguished air. He opened the door and held it open for the nurses to enter before him. They each walked quickly into the room, some of them trying to stifle giggles as they passed. Mary was last in line. She stole a quick glance at the doctor as she passed and he gave her a conspiratorial wink. Mary's face remained calm and serene, but she was laughing inside. This particular secret she carried was no burden.

Dr. Reginald Crawley moved past the nurses and went to the bedside of a young girl with her forearm in a temporary cast. He sat down at her bedside and smiled at her in reassurance. Mary stood off to the side and observed with a sense of pride and amusement. All of the hospital staff – nurses, administrators, doctors and even the janitors – looked at Dr. Crawley with the same awe and reverence, but for different reasons. The nurses and doctors admired his bountiful medical knowledge and his warm empathy for his patients; which was rather rare in a surgeon. The administrators appreciated his patience and wit, as well as his ability to handle any conversation with courtesy and skill. The other staff and personnel liked his friendly and approachable nature, and how he never seemed to hold himself above anyone else, despite being so well known and held in such high regard.

Mary was not too proud to admit she also was in awe of Dr. Crawley, but not only because he was a fine medical practitioner. When she had met him over a year ago, he was the first man to treat her differently than those she was used to – her Papa, her Cousin James, her Cousin Patrick, her various suitors, even her Godfather, Lord Merton. Dr. Crawley did not see her as a commodity, a pretty young thing to be bartered or commanded. He saw her as a young woman with a bright mind and a bright future, and this both scared and exhilarated her.

Matthew often teased her about who she fancied more – him or his father. She always replied that since his father was taken, she had to settle for Matthew out of respect to Isobel, who she liked very much. Matthew's petulant frown and exasperated sigh at her response were usually appeased with a quick kiss and the promise of other reparations between them. It wasn't in Mary's nature to tell Matthew her true feelings – that she loved him even more precisely because he embodied the best of both his parents, or that she enjoyed working with Dr. Crawley because he reminded her so much of Matthew.

Dr. Crawley went about applying the more stable plaster cast to the young girl's arm. His calm, reassuring words to his patient were a pleasant melody accompanying his careful work. As they all watched on, the clock chimed six-o'clock, signaling the end of the nurses' shift. With a brief nod, Dr. Crawley dismissed the nurses, who all filed back out of the room. Mary, however, remained. As she was not a fully trained nurse, but an assistant assigned to the department, she could do whatever she wished with her time, and she was now choosing to stay with Dr. Crawley. Mary smirked to herself. Not only did Lady Mary Crawley have a job, but she was even staying past working hours to carry out her duties. What a strange place this was!

Dr. Crawley examined the final plaster and nodded with a pleased expression. For the first time since Mary's arrival, the young girl smiled. It had been a very quick and easy process. Dr. Crawley did not discriminate amongst patients, even though the task could have easily been handled by a more junior doctor, Dr. Crawley was adamant that he be involved as much as possible with his patients. He was notorious for invoking his clout as a board member of the hospital to ensure that he was allowed the perk of seeing anyone who needed a doctor, no matter how trivial the case.

"There now, Molly," he said calmly. "See? I promised it was a simple fracture, and it would be easy to fix. You've been very brave."

The young girl smiled again but remained silent.

"Do you have any questions, Molly? Anything at all you want to talk about?" Dr. Crawley pressed on with a smile.

Molly shook her head, but then she bit her lip nervously and looked away.

"Mary," Dr. Crawley said as he stood from his perch on the patient's bed. "Would you hand me my coat?"

Mary picked up the white lab coat and offered it to him with a smile. Dr. Crawley rolled down the sleeves of his shirt and washed his hands with carbonic acid before redressing in the coat.

"I'll check on you later, Molly," he said. "But, I'll send in your delightfully impatient big brother Jack to see you without any further delay."

"Thank you!" The little girl squealed. With their parents out of town, Dr. Crawley knew that the young man had taken his sister's horseback riding accident rather hard. He was always pleased to see such pleasant bonds between siblings.

Dr. Crawley pulled the curtain around Molly's bed and went over to the next patient. The man had a concussion and was sleeping under a sedative. Dr. Crawley picked up the chart and scribbled some notes after observing the man's breathing for several moments. As he wrote, he spoke in a soft tone to Mary, who stood alongside him.

"Will we have the pleasure of your presence at dinner tonight, Mary?" he asked. He replaced the clipboard with notes and proceeded onward.

"Of course," she said quietly, pleased with the invitation. Dining with Matthew's family was far preferable to what she normally was stuck with in the evenings.

Dr. Crawley gave her his full attention as he looked up from the next chart. "Excellent. It's been a good day so far, and now it's gotten even better."

Mary smiled politely, still surprised by the kindness that Matthew's parents showed to her. Considering where she was less than two years ago, it was a small miracle that Mary's confidence and sense of fulfillment had been rebuilt to the point she could accept compliments without apprehension.

"Although, Matthew has not invited me, specifically. I wouldn't want to impose," she said.

"You always have a standing invitation to our home," Dr. Crawley said quietly. "Please forgive my son for not inviting you yet tonight, but I think he's afraid you'll get bored of him if he were to be around you as much as he wants to be."

Dr. Crawley smiled at her. He then nodded towards the curtain surrounding Molly's bed and winked at Mary. Mary nodded in understanding and waited until Dr. Crawley left the room before she blushed slightly. If Dr. Crawley knew of her private meetings with Matthew at the hospital, he may rethink his opinion of how bored she was of his son.

"So, Molly," she said, pulling back the curtain and giving her attention to her young charge. Obviously Dr. Crawley believed something was still on the girl's mind that was troubling her, and presumably she would feel more comfortable with a lady's insight to relieve her mind.

"Falling from a horse happens to all of us who ride," Mary said cheerfully. "I hope you won't let it discourage you in the future."

"Oh no," Molly said. "I love my horse, Buttons. I'm…" she stopped and took a deep breath. "I'm really more worried about the cast coming off in time for the Season. My Papa said I was old enough to go to London this year and Mama has put so much time into preparing me, I just don't want something like my injury to ruin everything for the family."

Mary was taken aback by these sentiments. The images of the London Social Season pulled Mary back to what now seemed like another life, when London was a far more welcoming place for her. Mary smiled at Molly in understanding. "Don't worry, dear. You'll be good as new in time for the Season. I know how important it can be, both for you and for your family. You just follow what Dr. Crawley tells you and you'll be ready to dance in no time. A girl's first Season should be enjoyed to the absolute highest degree."

* * *

_**Grantham House, St. James Square, London, England, July 1910**_

* * *

"May I have this dance, Lady Mary?" the young gentleman asked with a nervous bow and smile.

"I'm terribly sorry," Mary chuckled, her eyes twinkling and showing no actual remorse at all. "My card is full for the next while. Please ask me again though later."

She sashayed away from the crestfallen would-be suitor without a second thought and took the arm of the Honourable Evelyn Napier, son of the Viscount Branksome. Evelyn's father was a friend of her Papa's, and she had reserved this dance for Evelyn weeks ago when he had written to her.

"You look stunning this evening, Mary," Evelyn smiled. "Though there was never any doubt that you would be the belle of your own debutante ball."

"I am rather pleased with how it all turned out," Mary laughed, the champagne and the attention she was receiving forming a heady mixture. She was particularly pleased with her evening dress. It was devoré velvet trimmed with gold satin and metallic lace. The fashion was scintillating and the cost exorbitant, half the national debt, she had teased to her Papa when the dress arrived at Downton Abbey. And why not? This was her Season and further, this was her own party, designed to put all of the attention where it belonged – on her. Everything for this evening had to be perfect, and so far, Mary was enjoying herself immensely.

"My father is going to ask Lord Grantham if I can take you for a walk through Hyde Park this week," Evelyn smiled, leading her on to the dance floor and taking her hand in his. "And I would very much enjoy it if you would attend the races in our family box. Do you think your Papa will agree?"

"I think it could be arranged," Mary smiled, beginning the dance steps with him. "Papa will agree to whatever I ask. It is _my_ Season, after all."

"So have I interested you enough, then? I know you have numerous invitations this week already," Evelyn said with a nervous smile. He was adorable, although not as confident as Mary would have liked. He did not seem particularly exciting either, but that did not prevent Mary from indulging in his attentions.

"Well, I…" Mary began.

"Excuse me, may I cut in?" a deep voice called from behind her.

Evelyn frowned, looking up at the interruption. "Well, we just started to…"

"Thanks," Patrick said curtly, spinning Mary out of Evelyn's arms and leading her further away on the dance floor.

"Patrick!" Mary hissed. "What do you think you're doing?" Her eyes darted around the room as she maintained her composure with so many eyes upon them.

"What's wrong, Mary?" Patrick sneered. "Haven't got a dance for your fiancé?"

"Don't say it out loud!" Mary snapped. "We agreed that I would be permitted to attend my Season without restriction!"

"My father agreed," Patrick corrected her. "If it were up to me, I would never have allowed you to gallivant around the City accepting invitations from all sides, to say nothing for this unnecessarily extravagant party. Your father is recklessly spending my inheritance. You don't need suitors, Mary. You're already taken."

"And how necessary are all the events you've been going to, Cousin Patrick?" Mary shot back. "I suppose you're just keeping up appearances by attending all of the other parties across London?" Mary retorted. "It would seem difficult for you to dance with me when I'm not at any of these other balls you've been going to."

"I don't need to answer to you, Mary," Patrick snarled, "Nor do I need to bring you along to any of the other events I have planned." He pushed his body closer against her, and whispered in her ear as they spun around the dance floor.

"You must remember that our positions are very different," Patrick warned. "And if you cannot be trusted to know, then I may have to remind you exactly what position you belong in."

"Be careful of my dress," Mary said bitterly. Her veiled threat was rather pitiful since she knew it would fall on deaf ears.

The song mercifully came to an end and Patrick released her gracefully. Completing his ruse, he gallantly stepped back and bowed reverently, the image of a perfect gentleman for the assembled guests to witness. His polite façade infuriated Mary all the more.

"Thank you for the dance, Cousin," Patrick said in a louder voice. "Enjoy yourself this evening. It's not surprising that you have a large number of suitors fighting for your regard. You are a shining star this evening, Mary."

Mary swallowed and forced herself to nod in acknowledgment. She barely kept her anger in check as Patrick strutted off the dance floor. She shook herself and smiled demurely as another suitor offered her his hand and she resumed dancing, the sting of Patrick's words still fresh in her mind.

* * *

_**Home of Lady Philomena Grey, Manchester, England, May 1912**_

* * *

"Thank you for dinner, Matthew," Mary smiled as he escorted her to the door of the large house.

"I'm glad that you could make it," Matthew smiled. "I'm sorry that I didn't invite you sooner. I was hoping to catch you at the end of your shift and…"

"It's all right," Mary smiled. "Your father said I have a standing invitation to come to dinner with your family. That is, if you found that acceptable?" she finished a bit nervously.

"Of course I do," Matthew said a bit too quickly. Mary bit her bottom lip and looked down. "I'm quite happy to spend as much time with you as you wish, Mary," Matthew recovered.

They both stood in silence for several moments, neither one knowing quite what to say next. Finally, Mary shook herself. She did not want this evening with Matthew to end, and she realized happily that it did not have to.

"Lady Grey is actually away staying in the country this week," Mary said slowly, daring to look up at his blue eyes. "Would you like to come in, Matthew?"

Matthew grinned. "Won't that be considered improper, Lady Mary?"

Mary rolled her eyes. "The servants all went with her. Considering I'm a ruined woman, no one cares what I get up to."

"Don't call yourself that," Matthew frowned.

"That's what all of London Society calls me, among other things," Mary huffed. "Besides, I rather like having an empty house to myself. I once envied my Aunt Rosamund for accomplishing such a feat. All alone with a house in Eaton Square. I think that this kind of life suits me."

Matthew rolled his eyes and Mary unlocked the door and they went in. They walked quickly through to the kitchen, using as few lights as necessary. They made tea and found a container of shortbread biscuits. Matthew brought the tray to the dining room and they sat down with their snack.

"How was your day?" Matthew asked, pouring her tea. "Father mentioned you were very good with a particular patient? A young girl?"

Mary smiled. She still could not believe how proud she felt whenever Matthew did the simple task of asking her about her day. With one question, he demonstrated more genuine interest in something about her beyond her looks than any previous suitor ever had.

"Yes, Molly is her name. She was put in a cast for a broken arm suffered in a riding accident."

"Riding?" Matthew repeated. "That must have been rather scary for her. How young is she?"

"Not very, actually," Mary sighed. "She's having her debut this summer in London."

"Oh," Matthew replied, recognizing the change in Mary's tone of voice immediately. She never seemed to be able to say 'London' without her voice becoming slightly bitter.

"Will she be healed in time to meet the Royal Family?" Matthew asked.

"Yes," Mary smiled. "She'll be fine, thanks to your father. And she'll dazzle some young man I'm sure. Maybe she'll even get to decide for herself who she wants to marry."

"Darling," Matthew said patiently. "I didn't mean to make you angry. We don't have to talk about this if you…"

"It's all right," Mary sighed. "My life makes me angry. Not you."

"Mary, you don't need to suffer like this, you know," Matthew said cautiously. "You don't need to live in this house as an exile. Things would be so much different if you would…"

"Don't, Matthew, please," Mary shook her head, her eyes begging for his mercy. "You know why I can't live with you."

"But you can, Mary!" Matthew pleaded. "I don't care about any of that business," Matthew frowned. "Neither do my parents. It doesn't matter that…"

"Of course, it matters, Matthew!" Mary retorted. "What about your partners at the law firm? What about your clients? Will they be as progressive and understanding as you? Will they be so welcoming when you arrive at firm parties and events with the slut from Yorkshire on your arm?"

"Don't call yourself that!" Matthew snarled. "You're not…"

"Not what? A slut?" Mary laughed bitterly. "Oh darling, how naïve you are. That's what my own family says I am! That's what all of London Society knows me as! And what about you? I'm sleeping with you, aren't I? You've had me numerous times since Christmas! How eager I've been to come to your bed! What does that make me then?"

Matthew's arms were suddenly around her, pulling her against his chest. Mary blinked, pushing the tears back, but unable to stop a sob from escaping her lips. She felt ashamed of herself for taking out her rage on the only man who truly loved her. As usual, Matthew understood without her having to say anything. He did not chastise her, berate her, judge her or condemn her. He simply loved her, and eventually she sagged into his embrace.

"Mary, please," Matthew said softly, running his hand along her back.

Mary shook her head against his chest and sighed. She pulled back, staying within the warmth of his arms and looking up at him imploringly.

"I'm sorry, darling. I know you're so sweet, but this…this is all I can give you, Matthew. You deserve so much more, but you know that I just can't. Patrick and James did their work well. I am and always will be damaged goods. If you truly want to be with me, then it has to be this way."

"Of course I want to be with you!" Matthew said firmly. "But I'm going to find a way to put things right, Mary. I promise you, I will."

"Let's stop talking about this, please," Mary pleaded.

"All right," Matthew smiled bravely. "What would you like to talk about?"

"I don't want to talk," Mary smirked, leaning forward and kissing him. Matthew's eyes widened in surprise, then closed as his hands went to her waist and he returned her kisses.

"Mary," he breathed. "We don't have to…"

"Shh…" Mary smiled against his lips. "No talking," she smirked, kissing his cheek, and then moving her lips to his neck.

"For the rest of the evening, Matthew," she whispered seductively. "The only thing I want to do," she kissed his jaw. "Is make love to the most wonderful man in the world," she kissed his neck.

"Unless of course, you need to move along and get back home," she teased him, raising her eyebrow in challenge.

Matthew swallowed as she resumed kissing his neck. "I think that," he gulped. "My parents will be fast asleep already," he groaned. "And they won't care when I return."

"How convenient, darling," Mary smiled, kissing his lips before rising from her chair on slightly shaking legs and taking his hand.

Mary led him through the kitchen, laughing at him as he hastily deposited their used tray on the counter. She brought him into the hall and headed towards the stairs. As they passed a large mirror, Matthew stopped her, pulling her in front of it, holding her by her waist and standing behind her.

"Wait, Mary," Matthew smiled. "I have something for you."

He brought out a small box from his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

"I want to dress you before I undress you. It's becoming a little bit of a fetish for me actually. I may need to consult a nurse's assistant…." he smiled devilishly.

"Matthew, stop," Mary laughed. "You don't have to keep buying me things. I already love the dress and the pearls and the shoes and the purse."

"Just open it," Matthew said.

Mary smiled. She opened the box and gasped.

"Oh, Matthew! They're gorgeous. Darling, I don't deserve this," she shook her head.

"Yes, you do," Matthew said firmly, taking the earrings out of the box and placing them in her hand. "You deserve this and more, Mary. And, if you truly wish to be with me, then it has to be this way. I'm afraid that you cannot stop me from buying small presents for the woman I love."

"I would hardly call them small," Mary smirked, putting on the new earrings for him to see.

Mary turned and stood before the mirror, tilting her head to examine them more closely.

"They're beautiful, Matthew. Thank you," she said, admiring her reflection. With her new jewellery, Mary's appearance resembled her old self, her Downton self. How strange it was that appearances could be so deceiving, she thought briefly.

"They're small enough that you can wear them at work," Matthew smiled, kissing her neck. "Did you notice the stone?"

"Of course," Mary smiled, closing her eyes and enjoying the feel of his lips on her skin. "My birthstone. So thoughtful of you, darling."

"Any prat with money can buy a pair of earrings," he smiled, drawing a low moan from her as he kissed her shoulder. "A real gentleman knows how to make a gift meaningful."

Mary smiled as he continued his light touches to her skin, making her shiver with delight. _Any prat with money_, Matthew had said. It was remarkable how quickly Mary had learned the difference between having money, and properly using money.

"Matthew," Mary breathed, caressing his cheek as he continued to kiss her neck. "Would you like to help me prepare for bed?"

"I can manage that," Matthew growled, his eyes raking across her body in the mirror.

Mary and Matthew held hands as they climbed the steps to her bedroom. At the first floor landing, he pressed her against the banister for a sudden kiss.

"I need sustenance for the remaining journey," he said, his voice deep and his desire flaring.

Mary's back pressed against the thick oak rail and she pushed back against him playfully. As the kiss continued and deepened, her arms went around his neck and shoulders. Matthew's hands went around her body, always caressing and sometimes massaging any exposed flesh he could reach. His forehead touched hers as they finally ended the kiss. Mary shimmied onto the banister of the stairs; her body now perched in a very un-ladylike position. However, she didn't care as she pulled Matthew closer. His arms went protectively around her, as if she were to lean back there would be nothing but air.

"Oh Mary," he said breathlessly between kisses. "Be careful. You'll fall."

She tucked her head into the curve of his neck, relishing this embrace. Her earlier venomous words about being a notorious social outcast coming back to haunt her, she shuddered.

"I've already fallen, Matthew," she said sadly. Mary looked into his sensitive gaze, his beautiful blue eyes glowing with warmth and need. His response surprised her as he swooped her into his arms, carrying her up the second flight of stairs with purpose and determination. She clung to him, feeling light and secure in his grip.

Matthew lay her down on the modest bed in her attic bedroom. Although it was meant to be a demeaning placement for her in the house, she was quite fond of the space. It had beautiful wood beams and plenty of windows. Being sent to Manchester did not not mean she was now Jane Eyre, she was not the beast in the attic; particularly not when Matthew was with her.

"Clothes," Matthew gasped as he pulled his jacket off, his arms becoming caught in the sleeves, "are so tedious," he continued with annoyance.

"Well," Mary said with a small giggle as she helped him out of his jacket and vest and deftly unbuttoned his shirt. "That is because a man's clothing can not be ripped off quite as easily as a woman's..."

"You know this from experience, do you?" Matthew smirked, as he revealed his toned chest to her, causing her breath to hitch.

"I know that you're far quicker about removing my clothes than you are your own," she teased.

Mary then leaned back on the bed and raised the hem of her dress slowly, a little bit at a time. Matthew's eyes and hands followed her path, dancing across her thighs, to her hips and up her sides, his lips and tongue following the same path as his fingers and placing soothing kisses on Mary's warm skin.

When they were both naked, Matthew pulled the blanket over top of them. He gently moved her body against his, fitting himself with her, desperately resisting the urges that were blazing in his mind. Mary's frustration from their dining room conversation was not forgotten, and Matthew knew she needed comfort from him now, in addition to passion.

"I think I'm going to get you a tie to match my bedspread," Mary said sweetly, moving her hips and smiling at his strangled groan.

"Mary," Matthew said, smiling warmly at her. Both of them were gazing lustfully at each other now, their eyes dark with desire.

"You've changed my life, Mary," he said softly.

Mary had no words to truly capture what she felt for him in that moment. Instead she kissed him firmly and moved one hand down to his buttocks, grasping him wantonly and telling him what she wanted. Matthew obliged, both of them moaning as he entered her, his pace quickening almost immediately as the feel of her caused him to abandon all restraint.

Mary closed her eyes and kissed him all over his face, holding on to his shoulders as he moved faster. Yes, this was enough, she thought fleetingly as she responded to him and wonderful spasms began to fly through her body. Only Matthew filled her thoughts. She did not waste any part of her heart or mind thinking about what could have been, what had happened to her before, what had brought her to Manchester in the first place. This was her life now. She was with Matthew, which was all that she needed to be happy.

* * *

Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

_**Home of Reginald and Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, July 1912**_

* * *

"Oscar Wilde most certainly did write fairy tales," Matthew said to Mary lightly as he served himself a portion of fish.

"I don't believe it. I've never seen these so-called fairy tales," she replied with a twinkle in her eyes. "That sounds about as ridiculous as Henry James writing mythology."

"Isn't it true, Father?" Matthew said as he ladled sauce on his fish. "That Oscar Wilde's father was a doctor and he accepted fairy tales as payment when the person could offer nothing else?"

"First of all, you didn't say it was his father that dealt in fairy tales, you said it was Wilde himself. Second, it's not fair to bring him into our discussion," Mary said. "Your father knows everything. You should stand on your own in this debate, Matthew."

Dr. Crawley chuckled at this playful debate he was witnessing, but then he touched his chest briefly, and pushed his plate away, his fish untouched.

"Matthew's father does know a great deal, except when to lay off the sweets," Isobel said tenderly, smiling at her husband.

"You know me so well my dear," he said gratefully, his smile tight as he looked over at her.

The older couple stared at each other lovingly and everyone at the table grew silent. Mary smiled as she observed their special bond. She turned her head and caught Matthew's reaction. He was equally spellbound, but instead of smiling in admiration at his parents, he was smirking knowingly at her.

Mary couldn't help but blush. Matthew was so impertinent, and not at all as reserved and composed as a proper gentleman should be in the presence of a Lady. Despite her rebukes, he steadfastly insisted that they would, one way or another, be together until the end of their days, just like his parents. She had stopped arguing about the point months ago. Best to allow him his fantasy and continue her own belief of living in the moment. Mary had learned the harsh lesson that one could not assume that the future was granted. It was just last year that she was living almost month-by-month, unsure of what her future held or whether she had one at all. She was guarded and thoughtful by nature, but coming to Manchester had sharpened those qualities even more.

At times like these though, sitting comfortably in Matthew's family home, surrounded by love, she could not help but let her defenses down a little and admit that maybe there could be a happy ending for them someday.

"I'm afraid that I do enjoy the delicacies that patients bring to me at the hospital, as well as Mrs. Bird's and Isobel's baking of course," Dr. Crawley laughed as he turned from his wife to his son. "And Matthew's predilection for pudding is inherited from me."

"You've given me more than just my sweet tooth, I hope," Matthew joked. There was quiet laughter at the table as they continued to eat. Dr. Crawley sat sipping his wine, looking at Mary and Matthew thoughtfully.

"Mary," he said calmly after the lull had passed. "Believe it or not, Matthew is right this time. Wilde did write fairy tales, and I've got them in my library. If you ever want to read them, please take them for as long as you wish."

Matthew smiled at her triumphantly. Mary rolled her eyes but smiled at Dr. Crawley.

"Thank you," she said politely to his offer.

She sipped her wine and gave Matthew a teasing frown, raising her eyebrow at him in challenge. His family's generosity still shocked her, even though she had seen and experienced Dr. Crawley's many kindnesses for some time now. It was a strange contrast to compare him to her own Papa, and yet the only similar traits they shared were that they were both proud men who had vast libraries. However, Dr. Crawley didn't remove scandalous authors, or keep a tally on books he loaned to his own children.

"There are no myths written by Henry James sadly," Dr. Crawley said with a smile. "Although I did very much enjoy his essays about travelling through England. I think it's a proper way to travel – no tickets or luggage, just imagination."

"That is your father's courteous way of reminding me there is no need to leave Manchester, even for a holiday," Isobel teased.

"Well, as I always say," he raised his glass proudly, as Matthew and Isobel interjected.

"_What Manchester does today, the rest of the world does tomorrow," _they both said with a loud sigh.

The three of them laughed and Mary found herself joining in along with them. Their dinner table was warm and welcoming, a coming together of a true loving family, rather than the battlefield of fierce verbal sparring that she grew up with at Downton Abbey. She was not on trial simply because of her gender, she was not being fed a diet of intimidation and disappointment. Matthew's dinner table was warm and comfortable. It gave her goose bumps at how easily she was accepted without any hesitation. She was important to Matthew, and that alone was enough for her to be welcomed by his parents.

"My favourite Henry James," Matthew offered, continuing the discussion "Is his ghost story, _Turn of the Screw_. The ambiguity heightens the suspense."

"The scariest part of that story," Mary answered, "is obviously the governess. I've never met a governess that wasn't awful, and all four of mine were hardly angels."

"I've never cared much for James myself," Isobel said, adding her light voice to the discussion. "Do you have a favourite, Mary?"

Mary was reflective as she pondered this friendly question. She did indeed have a partiality to a certain novel.

"Please tell us, darling," Matthew pried. "Don't worry, you're not being scrutinized here. Mother is probably just looking for a recommendation so she can reconsider her opinion on Henry James".

"Well," Mary replied. "I never cared for '_What Maisie Knew_,' when I was younger, but it has become my favourite of all his works."

Dr. Crawley nodded his head at this statement.

"The books we can take with us as we mature, always have the greatest value, since those characters can mirror who we are, or who we want to be," he said.

Matthew nodded in agreement. "And that is why I will always love Kipling," he said fondly.

"Yes," Isobel said with nostalgia, smiling at Matthew. "The world would truly be a sad place if that ever changed."

Mary was about to ask Matthew about his favourite work of Kipling's when they were interrupted by Davis, the family butler, entering the dinning room.

"Terribly sorry, Sir, but there is a visitor for you," Davis said quietly to Dr. Crawley.

"A visitor? We aren't expecting anyone tonight," Isobel frowned at her husband.

"Who is it, Davis?" Matthew asked.

"It's Lord Merton, Sir. He apologized for coming without warning, but he said it's urgent," Davis announced.

Mary gasped, then covered her mouth immediately.

"I'll only be a moment," Dr. Crawley said, rising swiftly from the table and following Davis out of the dining room.

Mary stared after him, frowning at what this could mean.

"He wouldn't know that you're here," Matthew said quietly, looking at Mary. "It must have to do with the hospital."

"Matthew's right," Isobel said, reaching out and squeezing Mary's hand. "Lord Merton is a patron of the Royal Infirmary after all, and Reginald is a board member. It's probably something boring and inconsequential."

"That requires him coming into the City during the dinner hour?" Mary asked in disbelief.

Matthew looked at her thoughtfully, then rose from his seat and took her hand. Mary looked at him in confusion.

"Come," he smiled with reassurance.

"Where?" Mary frowned.

"To find out what this boring hospital business is all about," Matthew said patiently.

"Matthew," Isobel said. "You aren't going to take Mary to your…"

"Mother," Matthew warned. "It's a secret," he said playfully.

Mary rose from the table and Isobel nodded to her encouragingly. As the two left the dining room, Isobel smiled to herself.

Keeping a firm hold on her hand, Matthew took Mary through the kitchen and up the servant's stairs at the back of the house. They crossed the hallway swiftly, moving back towards the front where Matthew's bedroom was located. Mary could hear voices coming from the front foyer. She became increasingly nervous.

Matthew squeezed her hand in support and took her through his bedroom. Mary bit her bottom lip as she saw the familiar bed and the blue bedspread covering it. Matthew put a finger to his lips, smiling at her playfully as he opened another door and took her out into a small landing that she had not previously noticed. She had assumed the other door was one of his closets.

The voices of Dr. Crawley and her Godfather were very clear now, as though they were in the same room with them. Matthew motioned for Mary to sit down with him on a small settee that had been placed next to the wall. Mary's eyes widened as they looked down past the railing and to the foyer below. The large mirror that hung across the room from the main door to the Crawley family home was facing them now, and Mary could clearly see the reflection of Dr. Crawley and Lord Merton talking to each other below them.

Mary's eyes widened and she looked at Matthew. He winked at her, motioned for her to be silent once more, and then nodded towards the foyer as they listened in.

"If this isn't for hospital business, then what is so urgent, your Lordship?" Dr. Crawley asked. "Forgive me, I don't mean to be rude, but I've worked evenings all week and Isobel will be quite cross with me if I don't return to dinner shortly."

"I won't take up much of your time, Reginald. I appreciate you seeing me at this hour. I could have waited I suppose, but it's rather important news and I felt you needed to know right away."

"Very well. It must be important to bring you into the City. What can I do for you? Would you like to come into the parlour?" Dr. Crawley asked politely.

"That won't be necessary. I won't be long. It's difficult to explain. Do you remember my Goddaughter, Mary? She's volunteering at the hospital. I believe she may be working in your department, or with Isobel or some other nurses."

Mary frowned in alarm. What did Lord Merton have to tell Dr. Crawley about her?

Matthew ran his hand along her back, calming her and keeping her still.

"Yes, Lady Mary," Dr. Crawley said respectfully, adding her title to her name. "I believe Isobel has supervised her a few times. She says she's quite good, and a very diligent worker from what I understand."

Mary smiled at the compliment.

"Mary isn't important," Lord Merton huffed. "But, my news concerns her father, the Earl of Grantham."

"Yes?" Dr. Crawley asked, perplexed.

"Well," Lord Merton continued, "I'm sure you remember the unfortunate business of the Titanic back in April? Two of the passengers were James Crawley and his son, Patrick, both from Yorkshire. They've both gone missing."

"How terrible," Dr. Crawley said genuinely.

"Quite. It gets worse, though. You see, James Crawley was the first cousin of Robert Crawley, the Earl. James was next in line to succeed Robert as Lord Grantham, and of course Patrick his son was to be next in line after him," Lord Merton explained.

"Good heaven," Dr. Crawley stated. "So the next two heirs to the Earl of Grantham are missing?"

Lord Merton nodded grimly. "Missing, and presumed dead. Although the Earl has not given up hope they will be found, it behoves him to take certain measures for the sake of his title and Estate."

Mary's hand went to her mouth. Matthew's brow creased.

"What a disaster," Dr. Crawley shook his head. "But, Your Lordship, I still don't understand. What does this have to do with me?"

"The Earl's family is rather small, and so finding a male descendant to the Grantham line is difficult. They weren't aware of anyone beyond James and Patrick previously. I've known Robert for years, but our families are not related by blood."

Mary could not help but roll her eyes. Funny, she thought, even though Lord Merton was not related to her Papa, he was just as ruthless it seemed as far as she was concerned.

"I'm sorry, Lord Merton," Dr. Crawley said, losing his patience. "I still don't see how any of this concerns…"

"It's you, Reginald," Lord Merton said, with a hint of sadness. "You and your line are the last known male descendants of the Crawley line. You and your son are the heirs to the Earl of Grantham."

Matthew's mouth dropped open in shock. Mary's eyes went wide.

"I beg your pardon?" Dr. Crawley asked in disbelief.

"Your great-grandfather was a younger son of the third Earl of Grantham," Lord Merton explained. "You are Robert Crawley's third cousin."

"_No_," Dr. Crawley said confidently, "We may share a family name, but that is all. I've never heard of having distant aristocratic relatives in my life."

Lord Merton shook his head. Dr. Crawley was the only man he knew who could find out he was descended from the peerage and his first reaction would be to deny it.

"I was sent a telegram by a Mr. Murray," he continued, "He is the solicitor for Lord Grantham. According to his genealogy research, you and the Earl are, in fact, very distantly related."

Mary stared at Matthew. Matthew's brow was creased, his eyes still trained on the mirror below.

"I don't know what to say," Dr. Crawley replied.

Mary swallowed. It was a rare moment when Dr. Crawley was at a loss for words, and rarer still that she and Matthew were scared into shock as well.

"The reason that I wanted to tell you so urgently," Lord Merton continued, "Is because Murray is on his way to Manchester. He wants to meet with you. I don't know what he expects of you or what more there is to it, but I thought you should know before a strange man appears at your door. At least, a strange man that you don't know, anyway," Lord Merton added wryly.

"Thank you, Your Lordship," Dr. Crawley nodded, his eyes blank. "I'll be sure to meet with Mr. Murray when he arrives."

The two men stared at each other for a moment.

"I wouldn't worry," Lord Merton finished. "It is simply a formality at this point, until James and Patrick can be found."

"Thank you for telling me. Good night, Your Lordship," Dr. Crawley said extending his hand and ending this strange confrontation decidedly.

"Good night, Reginald. Please give my excuses to Isobel for interrupting your dinner," Lord Merton recovered. He was certainly not used to being dismissed by anyone, but his business with Reginald was done.

Once the trusted servant Davis closed and locked the door, Dr. Crawley stepped back towards the dining room. He spoke out as he went.

"Matthew, please bring Mary back down to the dining room. We have much to discuss," he said.

* * *

_**Manchester Central Railway Station, February 1911**_

* * *

Mary stepped gingerly off the train, looking left and right along the busy platform. The sky overhead was somewhat dreary and overcast. Mary frowned slightly as she took in the large arched steel beams high overhead the train platforms. So industrial. So utilitarian. So unwelcoming.

"Mary," a voice called.

Mary turned and smiled as an older gentleman approached her.

"Godfather!" Mary beamed, reaching her hands out to him.

Lord Merton took her hands quickly, then dropped them. He nodded to his driver, who went to assist a porter with Mary's luggage. Lord Merton turned and walked briskly down the platform, motioning for Mary to follow.

"Thank you for coming to meet me," Mary said pleasantly as they walked. "I would have been quite lost otherwise, I think."

"Of course," Lord Merton replied plainly.

They reached his car and the porter loaded Mary's luggage. Lord Merton and Mary ducked into the backseat and they were soon on their way.

"How are your sons, Larry and Tim? I'm looking forward to renewing acquaintances. I haven't seen them since my Season," Mary asked.

"They're fine," Lord Merton said distractedly, looking out the window.

"It was a rather long train ride," Mary said, puzzled as to why her Godfather kept looking out the window. "I must say the scenery here is somewhat strange. All the buildings seem to look the same."

"Manchester is a working city. It may not have the palaces of London or the quaint shops of the villages, but it is a thriving metropolis. I know you don't understand these things, but England owes a lot of its wealth and prosperity to this city," Lord Merton declared.

He turned and caught his god-daughter's roll of her eyes as she looked out her window.

"Mary," Lord Merton sighed. "This isn't Yorkshire."

"No, of course, it isn't," Mary said quietly. "I know that."

She remained quiet as the car wound through the streets of the city, eventually coming to a stately looking brick house on a quiet street a few short blocks away from the city centre.

"Come, Mary," Lord Merton said as the driver opened the door for them.

Mary frowned as she stepped out of the car and took in her surroundings. Her hands tightened around her purse.

"I thought your manor was outside of the City, Godfather," Mary said suspiciously.

"It is," Lord Merton replied, walking quickly up the walk to the front door. "This is my city home. My sister, Lady Philomena, lives here."

Lord Merton opened the door with his own key, and stepped aside for Mary to walk through first.

Mary stepped into the foyer and looked around cautiously. The home reminded her of a smaller, scaled down version of Painswick House in London, her Aunt Rosamund's home.

"I don't understand," Mary shook her head as the driver brought her luggage inside. "I thought that I would be staying with…"

"Francis! Is that you?" a shrill voice called from down the hall.

Lord Merton rolled his eyes. "Philomena, we're here."

A short, thin woman stepped into the foyer, followed by a tall thin man who surely was her butler. She looked at Mary with a scowl. Mary held up her chin and looked back at her, guessing Lady Philomena must be older than her Mama.

"So, this is the one, is she?" Lady Philomena frowned, looking Mary up and down. "Strange, she's dressed quite well, but then again, it is daylight still."

Mary pursed her lips, holding back a sharp rebuke.

"Philomena, this is Lady Mary Crawley. Mary, this is my sister, Lady Philomena Grey," Lord Merton spat out the introductions quickly.

"Lady Philomena," Mary said icily.

"Lady Mary," Lady Philomena huffed, then turned to Lord Merton as though Mary was not even there. "She won't be eating with me, will she?"

"No," Lord Merton replied. "She'll keep to herself."

"She should," Lady Philomena said, looking over at Mary again. "I still don't understand why you can't find her a room somewhere else."

"She has a room," Lord Merton shot back. "It's here, in my house. She is here on my generosity, just as you are, Philomena. I believe in charity after all, though I also believe in taking it away, if necessary."

"If you say so, brother," Lady Philomena sighed. She looked back at Mary. "You can make use of the servants, so long as I'm not using them. The same goes for the house. I expect you won't be around when I'm entertaining guests, and don't feel the need to tell me when you're coming or going. That's none of my concern. The less I know about you, the better."

Mary maintained her calm exterior, and nodded slightly. Inside, she seethed. The nerve of this old biddy to talk to her in such an insolent manner!

"Lewis will bring your luggage upstairs," Lord Merton said, nodding to the butler.

"Put her on the top floor," Lady Philomena said. "I don't want to see or hear her if I can help it. Have Sara show Lady Mary her dressing room and bath. Make sure the maids understand that they aren't to help Lady Mary in the mornings or the evenings. I can't release them unless I'm not home."

"Yes, Your Ladyship. Your Lordship," Lewis bowed, then picked up Mary's suitcases and carried them up the stairs.

Lady Philomena turned and disappeared back down the hall, not even bothering to say goodbye to her own brother.

"Godfather," Mary said coldly, turning towards him, her rage threatening to explode. "When I wrote to you asking for your assistance, it was not so that I would be sequestered away with…your lovely sister. To put me in the attic of all places, and to have no lady's maid! It's unacceptable!"

"Unacceptable?" Lord Merton frowned. "Mary, I don't believe you truly understand your situation. You are here on my charity, and thanks in no small part to the intervention of your Grandmother. My family has lived in Manchester for five generations, Mary, and we have a name to uphold, both here and in London. Sheltering you here is a supremely generous act, I assure you! The rules of this house are set by my sister, and you shall obey them, or you shall find yourself other living accommodations on your own."

Mary's eyes widened in shock. "A Lady cannot live on her own, Godfather! You know that!"

"Yes, I do. And you would be wise to remember that as well, Mary. Now," Lord Merton composed himself. "I'll wait while you go upstairs and freshen up. We have another stop to make when you're ready to go."

Mary turned and went upstairs, her steps stiff and her hands shaking. Coming to Manchester and to her Godfather was supposed to be the better of the few options available to her. As she walked quickly along the first landing and up the narrow stairs to the attic, she wondered if she had chosen wrong.

* * *

_**Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, February 1911**_

* * *

Mary stood stoic and rigid, her chin raised, the tears held firmly at bay. She wondered if she even had any tears left at this point. She had shed more of them in the past days than she could count. Her luggage was loaded into the back of the motor, and Taylor opened the door for her, his eyes downcast.

"Wait," the Dowager Countess called, stepping forward and stomping her cane on the ground. "This is a travesty! I will not permit this."

"Mama, please," Robert hissed, standing rigid in line with the rest of the family.

"Cousin Violet," James sneered. "Perhaps you would be willing to take Mary in? That would be a splendid display of generosity. Of course, to ensure there was no misunderstanding, we couldn't allow you and Mary to live at the Dowager House. It would send the wrong message, you understand?"

"You can't threaten Granny!" Sybil shouted. "The Dowager House isn't yours; it's our family's property! Grandpapa would never allow it!"

"_Your_ Grandpapa, Lady Sybil," James said caustically. "Is the same man who invited me and my family to move into Downton Abbey years ago. He trusted me to protect the family name and our honour," James said. He turned to the Earl with a hard glare.

"Robert, I expect you will keep your other daughters in line. Anyone who wishes to champion Mary's cause can pack their bags and join her."

Robert grit his teeth. He stared back at James, his lips tight.

James kept his eyes locked with his older cousin, his face unreadable, appearing almost bored.

Patrick merely stood next to his father and smiled at the display.

Robert looked away and shook his head at Cora.

"Sybil, that's enough," Cora whispered.

Mary swallowed. Her parents' behaviour would have shocked her if she wasn't already so numb from all she had witnessed over the years of James and Patrick living at Downton Abbey. Now, she wasn't surprised at all. Once again, in a battle of wits and a fight for power over their family, James had won and her father had capitulated with barely a word.

"There," James smiled. "We can all get along once we realize where our priorities should truly lie. Things are ever so much smoother when we all work together, aren't they, Robert?"

James turned and went back into the house. Patrick smirked with glee.

"Best wishes, Mary," he grinned, before he turned and followed his father back inside.

"Mary!" Sybil cried, running forward and embracing her.

"Shh, it's all right, Sybil," Mary said softly as the young girl sobbed against her. "I'll be all right. You know me. I'm never down for long."

"Mary," Edith said shakily as she came to her side. "I…I can't believe this is happening."

Mary sighed as she looked at her sister. "It's happening," she said curtly. "Take care of Sybil...and take care of yourself."

Edith nodded, tears flowing down her cheeks. She slowly helped Mary separate Sybil from her before Mary broke down.

"Mary," Cora said quietly, stepping towards her.

Mary stiffened, looking at her Mama with narrow eyes.

"I wish you would reconsider," Cora said. "I can write to your Grandmamma. She can find you somewhere in New York to start over."

"I said no," Mary retorted. "I'd rather stay with Godfather. I'd rather stay with family."

Cora cringed as if she was slapped. She took Mary's gloved hand and placed an envelope in it.

"Take this," Cora said. "I don't know if Cousin James will permit us to write to you or to send anything more. Mary, please understand, if we could have done anything to…"

"Goodbye, Mama," Mary said, venom dripping from her voice. She looked away from her, refusing to meet her gaze.

Cora nodded and stepped back, shaking her head.

"I thought this decade would mean a better life for women," Violet sighed, taking Mary's hands in hers. "My dear girl. Words cannot describe how sorry I am."

Mary mustered a sad smile. "I'm sorry too, Granny," she whispered. "Please take care of Sybil and Edith. Someone has to."

"I will, my dear. Be strong, please. I know it seems hopeless now, but…" Violet Crawley said kindly.

"Goodbye, Granny," Mary smiled, stopping her from saying anything further. She could not hear anymore. She could not listen to promises of hope and redemption, of miracles and answered prayers and suggestions that somehow all that had happened to her could be reversed. She embraced her Granny instead, inhaled the familiar perfume that she wore, trying to commit it to memory.

Mary finally stepped back and Violet joined Edith and a sobbing Sybil. Mary glanced over at her Papa. He stood frozen, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes pleading with her, as though he was begging for forgiveness.

Mary turned away without a word or a further glance at him. She stepped into the motor. Taylor closed the door behind her. She looked out the window, past her Granny's sad expression, past Sybil and Edith crying and holding each other, past her parents' sad expressions, past Carson's frowning face. She looked up at the high walls and spires of Downton Abbey, her home, the place that was to be her birthright and her kingdom for the rest of her life, until Cousin James and Cousin Patrick decided otherwise.

"The train station, Lady Mary?" Taylor asked quietly. "Bound for London?"

"Yes, Taylor," Mary answered without emotion. "Connecting in London for Manchester."

* * *

_**Manchester Royal Infirmary, Manchester, England, February 1911**_

* * *

"I am a patron of the hospital here," Lord Merton explained as they walked the hall. "It's the finest facility in North England."

"I don't understand why we're here," Mary said, looking around at the staff and patients scurrying about. She was afraid to touch anything, and she cringed as she heard strange noises coming from all around her.

"You're to work here, Mary," Lord Merton said simply. "I'm putting you under the charge of the nursing coordinator. You won't be a full-fledged nurse, of course, but they can always use assistants, and after some time, you can take on more responsibility and training and the like."

"A nurse?" Mary asked incredulously. "But why?"

"Mary, I don't…" Lord Merton stopped himself, conscious of the people around them. They easily stood out. Mary's travelling dress was probably more expensive than many of the patients' monthly salaries. He ushered Mary briskly into a small room and closed the door behind him.

"Mary, do you understand the reality that you are now facing?" he asked, his voice stern and brusque. "What did you expect when you decided to come here?"

"I didn't expect to be living with your sister and having to work!" Mary huffed. "Godfather, despite what…despite what you may have heard, I am still a Lady of noble birth. Women of my position do not work. We do not need to…"

"Your position, Mary," Lord Merton interrupted her. "Has changed drastically in the last few weeks. You aren't considered a Lady anymore, at least not by all of London Society. There are no more privileges for you, Mary. No more parties, favours, invitations or allowances beyond what your Grandmother has ordered me to provide to you. Your life is no longer buying clothes or paying calls or doing the Season. You must learn to fend for yourself, and working here is the first step towards doing that."

"But how long must I be here?" Mary asked, still in shock at his words.

"How long, Mary?" Lord Merton asked in disbelief. "This isn't a sojourn or one of your brief charity visits. This is your life, now, Mary," he said slowly, enunciating each word. "My generosity has given you a place to live and your Grandmother has funded your living expenses for now, to a certain standard, but the life you used to maintain is over."

Mary blinked, her mind reeling.

"This can't be," Mary whispered. "When they told me I had to leave Downton, they wouldn't have known I would be living like this. Papa and Mama would never have agreed to…"

"Mary," Lord Merton sighed. "The word has already spread through London that you were sent to America. The explanation given was that upon hearing about your…indiscretion…the family has effectively disowned you. No one knows that you're here. No one wants to know that you're here. What you do with your life now is no longer their concern."

Mary gasped, then covered her mouth quickly.

"Now," Lord Merton continued. "We're going to go see the nursing coordinator about what position you'll start at. They'll probably want you to change out of those clothes. Do you understand?"

Mary swallowed. She felt like crying, screaming, retching, all at once. She raised her chin and took a deep breath, giving her Godfather the same stare she had given her Papa just that morning when she was banished from Downton Abbey.

"I understand perfectly, Lord Merton," she said defiantly.

Lord Merton could not hold her fierce gaze. He opened the door for her to walk out of the room first, then led her down the hall in silence.

* * *

_**Home of Reginald and Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, July 1912**_

* * *

Mary watched as Dr. Crawley smoked a cigar on the porch. After repeating his discussion with Lord Merton to everyone, he had refused questions for the moment and adjourned for a brief indulgence into what he called his worst vice. She watched as Matthew laughed and chatted jovially with his father. Although she was anxious to hear about this news, she wouldn't begrudge Dr. Crawley this moment. She turned to Isobel, who she caught staring intently at her husband.

"Why doesn't Matthew smoke?" She asked with curiosity to break the silence. "I've always wanted to ask that. I'm used to seeing men take cigars together either after dinner or in the smoking room."

Isobel turned her attention towards her and smiled.

"This is Reginald's house, but he must abide by my rules," she said fondly. "We agreed long ago that he could only smoke outside the house, and never at the hospital. Once Matthew was born, he was adamant that Matthew never smoke. It is another one of his rebellious medical notions," she teased lightly.

"But surely Matthew must have been tempted? He must have friends who smoke, even professors at school when he was at Oxford?" Mary asked.

"It's possible, I suppose," Isobel nodded. "But I've never seen it. And you would know better than I what he likes to do in his spare time."

Mary blushed and looked away. She glanced at Isobel's smiling face and the two of them shared a comfortable laugh.

"Enough cheer for one evening, there is serious Crawley family business to discuss!" Dr. Crawley said in mock sternness as he and Matthew rejoined them. He resumed his seat at the head of the table.

"Now, we know what Lord Merton said, but what exactly is this Mr. Murray going to ask of you?" Matthew asked.

"Mary?" Dr. Crawley nodded.

"Murray is the Grantham family solicitor," Mary explained. "When James and Patrick disappeared, Lord Grantham probably ordered Murray to begin searching for the next heir."

"Which is you, apparently," Isobel said, looking at her husband.

"I must confess I have not been particularly vigilant about maintaining our family tree," Dr. Crawley smiled at his wife. "But it's no matter. It's always welcome news to find out you have other relatives out there."

"And that you're heir to an Earldom," Matthew smiled.

Mary's face remained passive.

"Hopefully Lord Grantham lives a long and healthy life and I won't need to take up the title any day soon, if ever," Dr. Crawley smiled.

Mary looked at him incredulously. "Don't you want to be an Earl?" she asked.

"Be an Earl? Heavens, no!" Dr. Crawley laughed. "Isobel, could you see me sitting in a country house, looking over my vast lands?"

"About as much as I could see you horse riding or fox hunting," Isobel smiled.

Matthew laughed. Mary looked at them all curiously.

"Well, we'll see what Mr. Murray wants of us. I can't see it being too earth shattering. Lord Grantham is still alive and well, so there's no need for me to become involved in the Estate," Dr. Crawley said.

Mary swallowed nervously.

Dr. Crawley stretched his fingers on the table.

"Well, that was certainly enough excitement for us," Isobel said cheerfully. "It's time that we retired. Matthew, Mrs. Bird has made a lovely lemon meringue just for Mary. Take care of her and we'll see you tomorrow."

Matthew and Mary both rose as Isobel took Dr. Crawley's hand and they left the room, giving Mary and Matthew a pleasant good night.

Matthew fetched the mouth watering dessert from the kitchen and brought out a generous slice.

"Matthew," Mary said. "You only brought one fork."

"Indeed I did," Matthew smiled, stabbing a piece of pie and bringing it to her lips.

"Matthew!" Mary laughed, before opening her mouth and taking the dessert from his fork.

"Mmm," Mary smiled. "Delicious. Did you tell your mother this was my favourite dessert?"

"I may have," Matthew smiled, taking a bite himself.

"So, the visit from Lord Merton aside, how was your day?" Matthew asked.

Mary smiled. "Quite interesting actually, I was with your father when he gave a woman the wonderful news that she is expecting a baby."

"That is brilliant," Matthew smiled, feeding her another forkful of pie. "Father would enjoy that. Was the woman happy?"

"Very," Mary smiled. "I've never seen a woman more radiant actually. She has been married for almost two years and beginning to think that she couldn't have babies."

Matthew chuckled. "It doesn't always follow that one gets pregnant from conjugal relations."

"That's what your father said," Mary replied. "I told him that I agree."

"You said that?" Matthew asked in surprise.

"Of course," Mary said airily. "Look at all the romps we've had and I'm not with child yet."

Matthew dropped his fork on the plate.

"I'm just teasing, darling," Mary laughed. "I didn't say anything at all."

Matthew rolled his eyes, and then looked at her earnestly.

"You do know, Mary," he said quietly. "If you were to…become pregnant, well, you know that I would…"

"Yes, I know, Matthew, I know," Mary said quickly, nodding to him in understanding.

"Anyway, this patient was rather interesting. Her husband works at Brownsfield Mill manufacturing aeroplanes – those flying contraptions," Mary continued.

"Really?" Matthew replied. "I wouldn't mind having a go in one of those."

"Matthew!" Mary scolded him. "Out of the question! Those monstrosities are dangerous."

"Oh, come now, Mary, it would be an adventure! You and I, flying among the stars, passing around the moon, just the two of us," he said with a devilish smile.

"You're mad," Mary laughed.

"Not at all!" he said, raising his eyebrows at her. "I'm quite used to flying, especially around you. You're my Venus, darling, my constant star, pulling me towards you like a never ending orbit."

"Stop it," Mary laughed. "Now you're talking nonsense. Besides, you haven't got the money to take me on such an escapade. It costs a small fortune to go up in one of those things even once."

"I don't?" Matthew challenged. "What makes you so sure that I don't?"

Mary smiled, shaking her head as she took another bite of pie.

"So," Matthew said, reaching out and taking her hand in his, lifting her fingers to his lips. "It seems that we're now cousins," he said, kissing each of her fingers.

"We're fourth cousins," Mary corrected him. "That's barely even a relation."

"Oh, come now, we share a formal connection, darling," Matthew smiled. "It's rather exciting news wouldn't you say?"

"Oh, I don't know," Mary frowned, taking her hand back from him. "If we are related, perhaps we will need to rethink our entire relationship. I don't know if I would be comfortable making love to my cousin."

"Now let's not do anything rash," Matthew said with alarm, taking her hand back. "We are only fourth cousins, after all," he said quickly. "Why, we're practically strangers."

Mary laughed as he resumed kissing her hand. "Perhaps you can convince me of what exactly I would be missing out on?" she suggested flirtatiously.

"Let's get you home, then," Matthew said.

They rose from the table and headed for the door. Matthew helped her into her coat and she took his arm as they stepped out into the night.

"Please give Mrs. Bird my compliments on the pie. It was lovely," Mary said.

"I will," Matthew nodded. "It was the second best dessert of the evening."

"Second best?" Mary looked at him quizzically as they walked down the street. "We've only had one dessert tonight, Matthew."

"We've only had one dessert so far, darling," Matthew smiled at her. "I expect I will be enjoying a different sweet delicacy very shortly."

Mary slapped his arm and laughed as he guided her towards Lady Philomena's house.

* * *

_**Home of Lady Philomena Grey, Manchester, England, July 1912**_

* * *

"Lady Philomena does enjoy the Season, doesn't she?" Matthew asked as he closed the door to Mary's room.

"She likes to play her role," Mary said dismissively. "Going to London with all of her servants, occupying part of Lord Merton's house there, attending the parties and so on. It's a wonder I never had the pleasure of making her acquaintance before. We would have been in London at the same time."

"I'm sorry you had to hear your Godfather being so dismissive of you," Matthew said.

"Don't be," Mary shook her head. "I know where I stand with him. It's probably for the better. I know he is in contact with my family. Whether he is ordered to spy on me or not, I don't know, but the less time I spend with him, the better."

"Still, it is rather sad, how much has changed from what you told me your relationship used to be," Matthew said.

"Not all families are as solid as yours, darling," Mary said, looking down at the floor. "It's easy enough to play the role of doting Godfather or even protective father when the mood suits and circumstances are easy. Ultimately though, in my family, when problems arise, keeping up appearances with the right people is far more important than other things."

Matthew stepped to her and took her hands in his, squeezing them as he kissed her forehead.

"Do you miss it? London, I mean," Matthew asked quietly.

"No," Mary shook her head. "I thought that I would, at first, but I look back on the things that I used to do when I was there and what I used to enjoy and I don't find that I'm missing out on anything by not being there. It's strange, taking tea with certain people and going to various functions seemed so important before. I don't feel that way anymore."

"Did you spend months there for the Season as well?" Matthew asked.

"No," Mary shook her head. "Papa…Lord Grantham preferred to return back to Yorkshire once we had satisfied our commitments. Except for my Season, we'd usually only be there for a few weeks, not the month or two that Lady Philomenna seems to prefer."

"Well, I am grateful that she is so fastidious about convention," Matthew smirked.

"Why?" Mary asked in confusion.

Matthew's eyes narrowed and he gently placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face away from him. Mary gasped as he kissed the side of her neck, his hands running down her arms and pulling her back against his chest.

"Because it means we have this entire house all to ourselves," he said playfully.

"Lady Philomena and the servants would not even notice if you were here," Mary said, drawing in a sharp breath as she felt his fingers move to the back of her dress. "They leave me alone. We don't even acknowledge each other if we pass in the hall."

"How terrible for you, to be denied such basic social contact," Matthew whispered in her ear as he slowly unbuttoned each of the clasps along her back.

"Do you think it important that I have such…contact, Matthew?" she asked as he slipped her dress off her shoulders and dropped it to the floor.

"Definitely," Matthew said, smiling at her low moan as he pulled the strings of her corset. "No one can go without proper interactions, darling. "

Mary swallowed, her pulse quickening as she felt her corset loosen and fall away to join her dress on the floor. Matthew's hands came forward and cupped her breasts, and she leaned back against him.

"And what sorts of interactions would you recommend?" she breathed, reaching behind her and finding his trousers. She smiled as she touched him and heard him groan in response.

"I would say something more meaningful than one word exchanges with the servants…" Matthew said, his voice choked as her fingers probed along his body knowingly.

"Should I seek out more stimulating conversation then?" she asked lightly, turning in his arms and deftly undoing his belt.

"Yes," Matthew replied, his hands moving to her waist and holding her close as she began working on the buttons of his shirt.

"What about flirting?" Mary continued, dropping his trousers to the ground and opening his shirt, her hands running across his firm chest.

"With the right man, yes, that could certainly count as…stimulating," Matthew answered, fighting to keep his eyes open.

"Of course," Mary smiled, kissing the bare skin of his neck and shoulder as she pushed his shirt down his arms and yanked his cuffs away.

"Anything else that you think I need, Matthew?" she breathed huskily into his ear.

"All sorts of things," Matthew growled.

He picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. Mary kissed his neck and face as he lay her down and followed on top of her. Her knickers and stockings were soon removed and he pulled the blanket over them as she opened her arms to him. His lips found hers, his tongue sweeping across her mouth as his hands moved down her body, feeling the soft skin of her bottom before he spread her thighs apart and hooked her leg around his waist.

"Mary," he breathed between kisses, feeling her hips rise towards his. "Please."

"Yes, darling," she hissed, clutching his shoulders as he found her centre and pushed into her.

Matthew groaned into her neck as heat surrounded him. He moved slowly at first, taking his cue from her own movements, determined to prolong her pleasure as long as possible. She had been distracted by her Godfather's visit tonight, and he wanted to be gentle with her, to focus her attention on him, on them, and block out the rest of the world.

"Matthew," she gasped, sliding her hands down his back and urging him to move faster. Delicious friction spread between their bodies and she held on to him, feeling his weight and warmth covering her. She did not think about the impending visit of her father's lawyer, her exile, or the repercussions of Matthew being now part of the Grantham line. All that existed was her and him and the pleasure that exploded through her body and her cries that drove him to join her soon after.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Manchester Royal Infirmary, Manchester, England, July 1912**_

* * *

Mary stepped outside into the warm sunshine and smiled. She had long ago learned not to count her blessings, but she could not help but feel quite fortunate just the same. Lady Philomena and her household were in London for the Season, so once again she was happily alone in the house. With free rein over the manor, she took the opportunity that morning to practice her baking, with a particular objective in mind. As Mary walked in the sunshine, it was hard for her not to shake her head at how she took pride in such a menial task that her old self would never have paid a thought to a few short years ago. For today she had baked her very first loaf of bread, her first three in fact, and she felt it was a marvelous accomplishment. Baking was shockingly fun. Before, she found it domestic and common and a task for Mrs. Patmore, not her. However, now, after numerous lessons from Isobel and Mrs. Bird, Mary felt comfortable in the kitchen and that she was doing something productive and real, rather than an activity below her station.

This delectable treat tucked away safely in her basket was something she had created with her own hands, a symbol of her new independence and self-reliance. Mary hoped it would be a nice surprise for Dr. Crawley – an early birthday present of sorts. The idea had come to her rather out of the blue, and she always enjoyed a plan of hers coming to fruition. She walked briskly through Whitworth Park, smirking at the rambunctious children and their amused parents. The familiar walk to the hospital on Oxford Street was comfortable and pleasant, and Mary hoped she could arrive before the bread became cold.

She was only steps away from the large gothic building of the Royal Infirmary when her eyes widened and she stopped in her tracks. She ducked behind a large oak tree and remained still. Peeking around slowly, she watched Mr. Murray as he exited the hospital, his attention fixed on his pocket watch. The Grantham Family solicitor almost collided with a young mother pushing a pram. He apologized and tipped his hat and continued down the lane in the opposite direction. Mary watched him until he disappeared into a taxi down the street. She did not emerge from her hiding place until she was sure he was gone and her path would not cross with his. She willed herself to remain calm and to not let the sight of her family's lawyer affect her pleasant mood. She knew he was coming, of course. Lord Merton had notified Dr. Crawley just the other night of the lawyer's expected arrival. And yet, seeing Murray in the flesh in Manchester, in _her _city, at _her _hospital, caused her to become agitated and cross. He did not belong here. Any link to Downton Abbey did not belong here. Mary felt as though her family's claws were reaching out towards her across the country, hoping to ensnare her once again, and Matthew and his parents along with her. Mary was not one to plead with fate, and yet she felt this was a cruel twist in the life she now had. Her life at Downton Abbey was over with, finished. She had come too far to be pulled back now.

* * *

_**Manchester Royal Infirmary, Manchester, England, February 1911**_

* * *

Lord Merton escorted Mary down the hall and past numerous people sitting in the waiting area. The place felt strange and unfamiliar. It was much bigger than the cottage hospital in Downton Village, and moreover she never visited hospitals to begin with. Dr. Clarkson always came to the house whenever he was needed. Truthfully, Mary was not one to bother with doctors. She saw it as a form of weakness, to go running off to the old man for some cure whenever she had an itchy throat or a scrape from riding. Lady Mary Crawley did not ask for help. Lady Mary Crawley was a storm braver.

"I must be going," Lord Merton said distractedly. "You can just go on down this hall to that counter over there, Mary. Ask for Cassandra, she is expecting you."

She felt her temper rise at this extraordinarily brazen and contemptuous villainy. To take her in, assure her that he would step in where her parents would not and guard her, only to find out that he was imprisoning her away from his own home and getting her a job of all things! Her Godfather might as well of sold her to the circus.

"Well," Lord Merton said finally. "Good day, Mary."

He turned and walked briskly out of the hospital. Mary did not bother watching him go, her eyes fixed on the counter down the hall and the bustle of activity surrounding it. So many questions filtered through her mind, but she slowly realized that there were no answers that would appease her at the moment. She needed time to absorb the shocking events of the past days. She had not even been in Manchester for a full day and already her world was spinning. The truth however, was that Lord Merton was at least correct in that she had little to no options, at least for the moment. It was better to bide her time for now, go along with this harsh exile and try and make the most of it. She walked over to the counter, holding her head high. Regardless of what all of London Society thought of her, Lady Mary Crawley was not going to cower in front of a nurse.

Eventually, she found Cassandra, the nursing coordinator. She was a very tall, very thin and very unpleasant woman. Her critical gaze pierced through the stylish clothing Mary was wearing. She tried not to fidget. After all, the gaze of one critic was nothing compared to the hundreds of eyes that had assessed her during the Season, and Mary had passed that exam with flying colours, perhaps a little too successfully, she now thought. Mary felt the tendrils of her coiffure bun tickle her neck. Her hair was unraveling following the long train ride and the shock of what awaited her in Manchester, and she felt ashamed at her appearance. She had tried to fix it herself as Lady Grey's maid had been unavailable to assist her, however her attempt did not have the same firm hold as Anna's usual work. It was another reminder of how far she had fallen in such a brief time.

"You're the new one, aren't you? Brought here by our patron, Lord Merton? You will need to either change or pinup your trailing skirt," Cassandra said with disdain, glancing at Mary, then looking away even as she continued snarling at her. "This is not afternoon-tea at Marlborough House."

Mary was silent at the comment. It was uncouth. This woman had seen her for all of five seconds and was already acting horribly vindictive. She was clearly jealous, Mary decided. Apparently even the working class was not above being petty and callous.

"And in the future, a simple pompadour for your hair will do. There is no one to impress here with Grecian knots, even if they are fashionable. If I see your hair down even briefly, I'll slap a hair net on you from the supply room," Cassandra said, looking over a clipboard.

Mary swallowed the angry retort that was waiting to be unleashed.

Cassandra held out a folded apron of muslin cloth. "This should always be worn over your simple attire. You're an assistant, not a nurse, and you will dress and behave as such so no one mistakes you for someone who actually knows what she is doing."

When Mary reached for the item, she realized her hands were shaking, but she snatched the apron and remained silent, her lips pursed and her eyes still surprisingly dry. This woman had shown Mary more audacity than could be believed, but then Mary had grown used to the unimaginable happening to her lately. After Mary had pinned up her skirt, having no other clothes to change into, she started on her first task – counting out pills in the store room for various patients' dosages.

The activity was not enough of a mental challenge to distract her from the heartache of the last twenty-four hours. She couldn't help but see her family lined up in front of Downton Abbey just that morning as she was banished from her home. Mary thought of Sybil's tears, her sweet little sister; always so faithful. Even Edith and Granny were kind enough to express their incredulity at what had befallen her. But when her thoughts turned to her parents, she felt nothing but rage.

Lost in her sudden anger, Mary clumsily dropped the bottle she was pouring from and pills spread across the floor. She bit back her tears as she crouched to retrieve the pills. Was it really a short time ago that she was the eldest daughter of the Earl of Grantham – destined to become Countess of one of the grandest Estates in Yorkshire? Now, here she was, squatting like a lowly kitchen maid and picking up pills off the floor. It would be so easy to give in and cry now, alone in this storeroom surrounded by a hospital full of strangers. She took several deep breaths as she collected the pills. No. She clung to the shreds of her fading resolve. Lady Mary Crawley would refuse to break until the bitter end.

She didn't hear the footsteps, but suddenly large polished black shoes were in her view. Mary looked up and saw a tall man standing over her. He wore a white lab coat and had a stethoscope around his neck. His very presence exuded authority, and he was clearly not just a doctor, but a high ranking member of the hospital surely. In any event, he was far above her in every way. Mary feared she was in for another lecture, and was not sure her composure could endure it. However, this grey-haired man smiled at her kindly, his bearded face compassionate as he bent down.

"Here, let me help you. They can be slippery little things, can't they?" he said warmly.

Mary only nodded her skin flushing as she searched his face for some hidden agenda or secret motive. Perhaps he was waiting for her to agree so he could chastise her for that as well?

"I'm Dr. Crawley," he said pleasantly. "Is this your first day?"

Mary paused as she heard his last name. Perhaps she had misheard him? Was this a ridiculous joke, for her to come all the way to Manchester and within hours of her arrival be greeted by someone with her own family name? And yet, Mary was weary of being suspicious and defensive. The doctor's tone of voice was calm and soothing, no doubt honed from dealing with anxious patients over his career. It was the first moment of equanimity she had experienced all day.

"It's nice to meet you, Doctor," she said quietly. "Yes, it's my first day. Thank you for your help." Mary retrieved the last fallen pill and stood up.

"I suspect you've been given this task by our lovely nursing coordinator. Don't be afraid of Cassandra. Her bark is worse than her bite," he said conspiratorially.

Mary smiled at his frankness. A kind man named Crawley? It still seemed absurd.

"Thank you," she said as he placed the pills he had retrieved for her into the tray in her hands.

"You're welcome," Dr. Crawley nodded. "Well, as you'll be working here, I should ask you…oh, I'm sorry. I don't know your name, yet."

"I'm Lady Mary Crawley," she said and shook his offered hand.

"Lady Mary Crawley," he repeated kindly. "How strange. I thought I knew everyone with our family name in Manchester."

"I've just arrived," Mary said, smiling politely to hide her apprehension. Now was not the time to offer explanations on exactly _why_ she was in Manchester.

"I don't actually have any family here," she said guardedly.

"One of life's peculiar coincidences, then," Dr. Crawley smiled. "A bit of advice, Lady Mary. It may do you well to point out to others that you aren't related to me. I have been known to run afoul of more than my share of hospital rules. I wouldn't want my reputation to be a stain upon you," he laughed.

Mary could not help but smile. This man was remarkably down to earth and modest, despite being superior to someone in her position. To have a real conversation with a genuine person was a pleasure that Mary now realized she had been lacking for far too long.

"Well, as I was going to ask you, Lady Mary," Dr. Crawley continued with enthusiasm, "Do you know of Madam Curie?"

All Mary could do was shake her head at this very strange question, although she was very intrigued. Anything to keep talking to Dr. Crawley and not go back to counting those damn pills was a welcome distraction.

"Mark my words, Lady Mary," Dr. Crawley said animatedly. "Madam Curie is going to win the Nobel Prize this year. And that will anger Cassandra greatly, for she had thought to be the first woman for such an award. So, whenever she causes you any difficulty, simply think about the disappointed look on her face when she is passed by."

Not just a smile, but a true laugh filtered from Mary at these jesting words. It was such a lighthearted tease, with no malice. And from her encounter with Cassandra she could see the merit in Dr. Crawley's words.

"There now," Dr. Crawley said. "That's better," he said noticing the change in her disposition.

"Reginald," a sharp but affectionate voice called from across the hospital hall, interrupting their conversation. "There you are. Come along now, Matthew is waiting."

Mary turned and saw a middle aged woman standing outside the store room, smiling kindly despite her previous firm tone to Dr. Crawley. Dr. Crawley stepped out into the hall and smiled back at her. This must be his wife, Mary thought, and she decided that they made a good pair. She idly wondered who was this _Matthew_ that the woman referred to?

"Your timing is impeccable, my dear," Dr. Crawley said fondly.

"Lady Mary," he said, gently urging Mary to come over to the smiling woman. "Please meet my wife, Isobel. She is a senior nurse here at the hospital. Isobel, Lady Mary Crawley, our newest nurse's assistant."

"Lady Mary," Isobel nodded. "A newfound relation of ours?"

"Hello Mrs. Crawley," Mary nodded in reply. "No, I'm afraid not. We seem to share a name, is all."

"How interesting," Isobel smiled. "And what are you up to for today?"

Mary was somewhat surprised by the inquiry. Did this woman actually care what she was up to?

"Erm, well the nursing coordinator has given me a task in the storeroom, and I'm to report to her once I'm finished," Mary said, trying not to hide the disdain in her voice.

"Yes, Lady Mary is under the supervision of Cassandra, apparently. You would think the woman would realize that we require nurse's assistants of our own to…" Dr. Crawley suddenly grinned widely.

"Oh, Reggie," Isobel shook her head with amusement. "What are you playing at now?"

"Darling," he said taking his wife's hand, his voice warm and charming. "This young woman needs to be rescued from Cassandra's stockade and it seems to me that our department is woefully understaffed. Are you willing to take charge of her if I can arrange it?"

Isobel's eyebrows rose at the challenge. "Of course," she said confidently and without delay to her husband.

"I'm sorry, but I really don't have any experience at all working with…" Mary interjected.

"Well you won't get any experience unless you work at it," Isobel noted. "I'll teach you all that you need to know, Lady Mary." Isobel looked curiously at Mary's formal dress and pinned up skirt. "That is, if you are willing. Are you willing?"

Mary still had not grasped the idea that she would have to work at all, let alone on a regular basis. However, it was obvious that spending time with Isobel and Dr. Crawley was far more preferable than bearing the terror of Cassandra.

"Yes," Mary said boldly.

"Excellent! That's the spirit, Lady Mary," Dr. Crawley said with admiration. "It is all settled then."

"What is all settled, exactly?" a bemused voice called.

Mary turned to identify this new speaker. Her eyes widened and her lips parted slightly. She recovered quickly and closed her mouth into a neutral expression, her eyes focused on the sight before her. The speaker was a young man with blond hair and blue eyes, who smiled as he approached them. The resemblance to Dr. Crawley was apparent, though his face was of course younger and more defined. Mary admired his finely tailored clothing, but it was the crooked grin on his face that truly intrigued her. And his eyes. They were a brighter blue than Mary had ever seen. And they seemed to dance, first moving from his father, then to his mother, before resting on Mary. He smirked at her and she found herself smiling back.

"Never you mind, my boy," Dr. Crawley said with a smile. He paused as Matthew's gaze seemed fixed on Mary.

"Matthew," Dr. Crawley said firmly, drawing his attention finally. "This is Lady Mary Crawley; she is a new nurse's assistant and will be working with your mother."

"Lady Mary," Matthew said gently. He offered her his hand, palm up. Mary was taken off guard by the gesture, so common and expected in her old world, but out of place in this one. Still, she placed her hand in his automatically, and swallowed slightly as his eyes returned to her, his touch lingering for a moment before finally releasing her fingers.

"Hello," Mary replied, her voice seeming to hitch unexpectedly. "We're not related. Your parents both asked me that," she said quickly, trying to use conversation to shield herself from his gaze and to distract her from the fluttering in her stomach.

"I'm glad that's settled, then," Matthew smiled. "Erm, I apologize for my disheveled appearance, Lady Mary," he continued, somewhat nervously. "It's rather cold outside and I'm afraid I was at the mercy of the wind."

"I don't find you disheveled at all," Mary replied. She looked down and pursed her lips, her eyes widening briefly in shock at what she had just said to a man she had just met.

"Lady Mary was working with Cassandra," Dr. Crawley said, accepting the coat that his wife offered him. "When I learned that she is a Crawley; naturally I had to save her from such a horrible fate."

"You're in good hands, Lady Mary," Matthew smirked. "Although Mother can be just as much a taskmaster, I assure you. At least she smiles from time to time though."

Mary carefully gave him a demure smile of acknowledgment. She summoned all of her coquettish tricks to not reveal too much to this man. She wondered briefly why it didn't seem so easy to her now, how she didn't quite know how to behave.

"I am always fair with those under my wing," Isobel retorted. "Well, tomorrow then, Lady Mary," she continued. "I'll meet you at the west wing partition of the hospital at eight o'clock in the morning and we'll begin your training."

Isobel took Dr. Crawley's arm and Dr. Crawley tipped his hat to Mary as he put it on. Mary nodded in reply. She did not trust herself to speak in Matthew's presence. She kept herself calm as the family moved towards the exit, but she could not stop herself from blinking in surprise when Matthew suddenly stopped, turned around and walked back towards her.

"I'm sorry, Lady Mary," he said with a smile. "I forgot to say goodbye to you. I apologize for being so rude."

Mary's pulse was strangely quick. "That's all right," she said warmly. "And please, Matthew, call me Mary."

"Very well, Mary," Matthew said, his face brightening. "I hope that you don't mind, or think me too forward, but I expect I'll be seeing more of you in the future. I come by the hospital most afternoons on my way home from work."

"Of course I don't mind," Mary replied, silently berating herself for sounding so enthusiastic. What was wrong with her? She needed to say something else right away.

"Are you also a doctor?" she asked.

"No, I'm not, much to my parents' dismay," Matthew laughed. "I'm a lawyer. My office is a few minutes away and the hospital is on the way to our house."

"A lawyer. So, you enjoy arguing, then?" Mary asked, raising her eyebrow at him. She kept her eyes on his. She wasn't one to shy away from conversation, and this one was becoming quite pleasant.

"I admit that I do, but only for a proper reason. I prefer a good argument to a personal attack," Matthew said.

"Many people have great difficulty telling the difference," Mary noted.

"That's true, especially among the barristers in this city," Matthew chuckled.

"Anyway, I shall not keep you from your duties. I would continue this conversation, but my parents are probably preparing a scolding for me as we speak," he said with a warm smile.

Mary smiled at him.

"Goodbye, Mary. It was…a pleasure meeting you," Matthew nodded.

"Goodbye, Matthew," Mary answered simply. She was unable to stop smiling.

He backed away from her for several paces before he finally turned and rejoined his parents outside. Mary turned and went back to the storeroom. When Cassandra came to fetch her later for another task, Mary followed along. She absorbed the instructions and easily ignored the disdain and condescension in the woman's voice. Instead, Mary counted the hours until her shift would end, knowing that her deliverance from this woman was close at hand and a new day would dawn tomorrow.

* * *

_**Law Office of Jennings and Norman, Manchester, England, July 1912**_

* * *

"Mr. Crawley, a Lady Mary is here to see you," Matthew's secretary announced.

"Thank you," Matthew said, rising from his desk as Mary came into his office.

"If it isn't my favourite client," Matthew said quietly, smirking at her.

"We'll need to come up with what the exact services are that you are providing for me to justify all of these visits," Mary smiled. "I doubt your clients come by your office this often."

"The staff don't ask questions and don't remember anything beyond what they are supposed to. That's the first rule of working in a law office. As for the services I am providing for you, well, I can think of all sorts of things," Matthew said.

"Matthew!" Mary hissed, glancing back at the closed door nervously. She could not help but smile as she turned back to him and his playful expression.

"It's your day off. What brings you by?" he asked.

"I went to the hospital to surprise your father with an early birthday present," Mary explained, placing her basket on his desk. "But, I just missed him by the time that I arrived. So, I decided to come see you instead."

"Always second best to Papa," Matthew joked as he lifted the cover of the basket and smiled at the contents.

"Raisin bread. Mary, he'll love it. It smells delicious," he said proudly.

"Go ahead and let me know what you think," Mary smiled. "I have another at home. I'll bring it over this evening."

Matthew took a bite of the soft bread and smiled.

"Mary this is the best one yet," he said genuinely. "I'd have a hard time telling it apart from Mrs. Bird's."

"Don't tell her that or you'll be eating porridge for a week," Mary teased.

Matthew devoured another slice, and then looked up. Mary was looking down at her hands.

"What is it, darling?" he frowned.

Mary sighed. She sometimes didn't like how Matthew could read her so easily, or that he was so quick to ask her how she was doing.

"I saw Murray today," she said quietly.

"You did?" Matthew said in concern. "How did that go?"

"I didn't speak with him," she said. "I imagine I saw him as he was leaving his meeting with your father."

"Then we'll hear all about it at dinner," Matthew concluded. "And that also means there's no reason to think or talk about it now," he said pointedly.

Mary looked up and smiled gratefully.

"Well then, what shall we discuss?" Mary asked, rising from the chair and walking around his desk towards him.

Matthew turned in his chair to face her as she came around. He swallowed.

"We could talk about whatever you like, Mary," Matthew said quietly.

"Do you have any idea about what's on my mind at the moment, Matthew?" she asked, leaning over and placing her hands on his shoulders.

"I imagine your thoughts are very close to mine right now," Matthew whispered, his hands running along her arms.

"Shall we ring your secretary and instruct her that you aren't to be disturbed?" Mary whispered, leaning forward and kissing his cheek.

"Mary I don't think that the furniture in my office is particularly suited for our needs," Matthew replied, trying desperately to stop himself from acting on the rather scandalous ideas that were flying through his mind.

"They seemed to work perfectly fine the other night, darling," Mary drawled. "I'm sure they would be fine this time around, provided we are creative enough."

"Oh God, Mary," Matthew gasped as the vivid memory came forth. "If only…"

"If only you didn't have an appointment in several minutes," Mary smiled, kissing him then standing back.

"You knew that? And you still teased me!" Matthew sighed.

"Your secretary warned me that your time was short," Mary smiled.

"You've ruined my ability to concentrate for the rest of the day, you know," Matthew shook his head.

"Well, perhaps I'll give you something to focus on after dinner tonight?" Mary said playfully.

"That isn't helping," Matthew growled, rising from his chair and escorting her to the door. "But I will hold you to that promise."

Mary gave him a quick kiss before he opened the door.

"Until tonight then," he said. "I'll come get you when I'm done here. And Mary, please try and enjoy your day off."

"I will. Thank you, darling." She leaned up and kissed him again before she quietly left his office.

* * *

_**Home of Reginald and Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, July 1912**_

* * *

"Delicious!" Dr. Crawley smiled, taking a bite of his small slice of raisin bread. "Thank you, Mary. This is lovely."

"I had a good teacher," Mary smiled, looking at Isobel.

"Nonsense," Isobel smiled in return. "Once we were able to get her manicured fingers to really pound the dough with some purpose, I knew she'd be just fine. You have a talent for this, Mary."

"Oh, I don't know," Mary said, looking down at her plate and blushing slightly.

"Well, I agree with Mother," Matthew smiled. "Mary has all manner of rage that can be taken out in her baking. This should be therapeutic," he teased.

"Perhaps if some people did not vex me so," Mary replied, smirking at Matthew.

"Right then, well I suppose you're all curious about Mr. Murray's visit today," Dr. Crawley said, taking a sip of water.

"Reggie, perhaps now is not the time," Isobel began, glancing at Mary.

"It's all right," Mary said, thanking Matthew's mother for her understanding. "I want to know what he told you."

"Well, not much of anything actually, but I think it was good news for now. He confirmed that our families are distantly related. I'm the third cousin of the Earl of Grantham. However, the Earl hasn't given up on James or Patrick Crawley having survived the Titanic disaster. He's got private investigators in Canada and New York looking for them now," Dr. Crawley said.

"Of course, he does," Mary said petulantly, stabbing her bread with a fork.

"So, if you aren't conclusively the heir, why bother sending Murray here?" Matthew asked.

"I can't say," Dr. Crawley answered. "Not all lawyers are like you my boy," he teased. "Murray had an inordinate amount of personal questions about my work at the hospital, about your Mother and about you, Matthew."

Dr. Crawley sighed, drumming his fingers on the table.

"Lord Gratham's lawyer also asked about my wife's side of the family, before he then inquired about how often we go to London whether we do the Season, that type of thing. I must say at times I felt as if I were being interrogated."

"How odd," Isobel commented.

"It's not surprising," Mary finally said, unable to hold back her anger. "Lord Grantham sent Murray here to evaluate you. He wants to know who you are and most importantly, who knows you and how you act and behave in Society. He needs to know what he's dealing with and how much he needs to change you to suit his purposes."

Mary closed her eyes briefly and frowned. She hated showing bitterness or cynicism in front of Matthew's family. There were benefits to being cold and calculating sometimes. She could predict her Papa's motives blindfolded.

"What's important is that it means nothing to us for the moment," Dr. Crawley said. "For now, while the investigation continues for James and Patrick, nothing changes."

"Did Mr. Murray say he would be back in touch?" Matthew asked.

"Yes," Dr. Crawley said. "And hopefully we won't need to hear from him for a very long time."

Mary suppressed a sigh and looked away.

"Mary," Isobel said patiently. "We're done here. You had a rather full day today. Why don't you go lie down upstairs? Reggie and I will be retiring soon, anyway."

"Oh no, I couldn't possibly," Mary said, her eyes wide in alarm. "We should go through to the parlour. We can have drinks and talk and…"

"Mary, I can clearly see that you're worn out, and truthfully, so am I," Isobel said with a smile. "Matthew, your bed is presentable is it not?"

"Of course, Mother," Matthew replied. "I'm not at university anymore."

"Excellent," Isobel said. "Go on, Mary. This is your senior nurse talking. Go up and lay down."

"Best to humour her," Dr. Crawley said mischievously. "Otherwise she'll keep bringing it up until you finally capitulate."

"All right," Mary nodded gratefully, her composure slipping away from her. "I'm sure I'll be fine if I just take a moment."

She rose and quickly left the dining room, walking upstairs to Matthew's bedroom. She needed to get inside and close the door before she broke down. She did not want Matthew's parents to hear her sobbing. She had not shed any tears of sadness since her arrival in Manchester, but the return of her family these past few days had worn on her heavily.

Mary was grateful when she reached Matthew's bedroom and ducked inside. The blankets had Matthew's scent and as she collapsed upon them, she shut her eyes tight, allowing his presence to soothe the fury inside of her, the tears spilling freely as she stifled her sobs.

"I should go make sure she's all right," Matthew frowned, looking to the doorway.

"Your father can go," Isobel said gently.

"Perhaps its better if Matthew…" Dr. Crawley responded.

"Go and talk to her, Reggie," Isobel ordered. "You're the heir, and you are the one who met with Murray today. Matthew will be up later. Right now, she needs reassurance from you that nothing will change."

"Very well, I'm going," Dr. Crawley said smiling wanly at his wife, then his son, before rising from the table.

Matthew watched his father leave the dining room. He turned to his mother with a confused expression.

"Just give him a few moments, Matthew," Isobel nodded. "She needs you, but she needs to hear what your father has to say first."

There was a timid knock on the door and Mary turned over. As the door opened, she sat up and struggled to compose herself.

"Dr. Crawley!" she said in surprise. "I thought it was Matthew."

"He'll be up later," Dr. Crawley said, crossing the room and sitting down in Matthew's desk chair beside the bed. Mary looked at him nervously.

"Mary," he began slowly. "I'm not leaving Manchester. Neither is Matthew. And neither are you. I can only imagine what this news and Mr. Murray's visit have reminded you of, but please do not let it affect you so."

Mary swallowed, trying to keep her tears and anger under control. She hated showing weakness in front of Dr. Crawley. He had already seen her in several weak moments as it was.

"I'm not worried," Mary said quietly. "But it's hard to see Murray and not think about all he represents, or more specifically, _who_ he represents."

"He seemed nice enough, actually," Dr. Crawley noted. "Although I don't think he liked Manchester, so that biased my feelings towards him."

"He does his job," Mary spat. "It's his employer that I don't like."

"But surely the reminder of your family is nothing new?" Dr. Crawley asked cautiously. "We all can tolerate Murray's presence and go back to our normal lives now, can't we?"

"Yes, but…oh, you'll think me foolish," Mary sighed.

"Never," Dr. Crawley said firmly.

"It's just that I've worked so very hard, you know?" Mary said. "I came here with nothing and thanks to all of you, I feel as if I've built something for myself here, something of my own, something that my family didn't give to me, and if I never heard the name Grantham ever again I would be quite happy."

"And now that it appears that we're distantly related, you think you're going to lose all of that?" Dr. Crawley asked, trying to understand.

"Possibly," Mary replied. "But more importantly, I just don't want my family to hurt you the way that they hurt me."

"Mary," Dr. Crawley smiled. "That won't happen. As of now, we're related in name only. Who knows? Your father is actually younger than I am. Lord Grantham may outlive me, and so there will never be any reason for me to concern myself with any of them."

Mary sighed, unconvinced.

"Besides, maybe Mr. Murray will report back to the Earl that I was terribly uncouth. Maybe he'll say that I love an industrial town that he finds unclean, and my wife and son are unsettlingly modern. That will make him disown me entirely and search for another heir."

Mary laughed, shaking her head.

"Thank you," she said genuinely.

"Always, Mary," Dr. Crawley smiled, nodding to her. "Your well being is of utmost importance to Matthew, and so it is of utmost importance to Isobel and I also."

Mary nodded in understanding.

"You'd better send your son up. You know he doesn't like to feel left out," Mary teased.

"He gets his petulant streak from me, I'm afraid," Dr. Crawley laughed. "I've passed on only my finest qualities. Good night, Mary."

"Good night," she nodded as Matthew's father left the room.

There was only a brief pause before another knock was heard on the door.

"Mary?" Matthew asked quietly and he came into his darkened room.

"Darling," Mary smiled. "Come lay with me."

"Contain yourself, woman, please! My parents are right down the hall," Matthew scolded her playfully as he approached the bed.

"Just lie down," Mary rolled her eyes.

Smiling, Matthew lay down next to her and reached out his arm. Mary automatically took her usual place, nestled in the crook of his arm and shoulder, her hand across his chest.

"What if James and Patrick aren't found and your father has them declared dead?" Matthew asked after a long pause.

"They're alive," Mary said defiantly. "They probably shoved their way past all the women and children so they could commandeer one of the lifeboats," she huffed. "They'll be running amok across New York all summer, and then return triumphantly to England in the fall to receive adulations over their miraculous survival."

"Mary," Matthew said quietly.

"They're alive, Matthew," Mary replied firmly.

"But if they're not," Matthew pressed on. "Then Papa will be the sole remaining heir."

"If that happens then Lord Grantham will push him to go to Downton," Mary said resignedly. "He'll want to get his hooks in him as soon as possible, and will pester him until he goes there."

"Father won't leave Manchester," Matthew replied. "He'll say there's no need while the Earl is still alive. He has no stomach or desire for Estate management; he doesn't even like the politics of the hospital board! Even if your Papa summoned him, he'd probably send me in his place."

"You at Downton?" Mary laughed. "Now that would be a sight, but I would never permit it."

"Why?" Matthew asked, somewhat hurt by her implication. "Our lives can't be that different!"

Mary raised her head and looked at him lovingly. "Downton and my family have a way of changing people," she said softly. "And I won't let them change you, or your father."

Matthew kissed her in understanding.

"Besides," Mary continued. "Darling, you would never go either."

"Why wouldn't I?" he asked.

"Would you give up your law practice?

"No."

"Would you leave your parents here to go off to Yorkshire by yourself for who knows how long?"

"No."

"Could you see yourself dealing with tenant farmers and doing the Season? Going on hunts and hosting balls and parties?" Mary laughed.

"No," Matthew chuckled.

"Then that settles it," she declared.

Matthew tightened his embrace around her body.

"I wouldn't want to do any of those things, Mary," he said. "But I would. I would do all of them and more quite gladly, if it meant I could restore you to your proper place, to give you the life that you had to give up."

"Matthew," Mary sighed.

"I told you I would find a way to make things right, Mary," Matthew declared. "This may be that opportunity."

"Everything is already right in my world," Mary said fiercely, looking at him. "That part of my life is over, and good riddance to it. Don't you think it's obvious why Murray never visited Lord Merton while he was here, or came by Lady Philomena's home? Lord Grantham isn't looking for me, Matthew. He may be very interested in your father, but he has no interest in bringing me back. And truthfully, I have no interest in going. I know what a real family is now, and I don't need them."

"But Mary, what about your sisters? You still write to Sybil. I know that you miss them."

"I do," Mary admitted. "I even miss Edith, as horrible as she can be. And Granny. Maybe someday I'll see them again. But as for the rest of them, they aren't thinking of me, and I'm not thinking of them."

"I wouldn't go to Downton without you," Matthew whispered.

"We'll never have to deal with that," Mary said firmly, leaning up and kissing him. "We're where we belong, Matthew. Here, together."

He looked at her for a long moment, her eyes pleading with him to relent, while his heart urged him to go forth and take up her cause.

"All right," he said finally, and he kissed her, then held her close to him, massaging her back as he listened to her drift off to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Manchester Royal Infirmary, Manchester, England, August 1912**_

* * *

Mary sighed as she glanced around the empty dressing room. The day shift was done and she had once again lingered a bit to ensure she was the last to change and leave. While none of the nurses asked her any questions or even attempted to make conversation, the less people knew about her, the better, and so an empty dressing room suited her purposes. She removed her apron and hung it in her locker, then changed her shirt and shoes. It had been another long day, and yet the work did oddly satisfy her. Mary was assigned to Dr. Edgar today, and while he wasn't Dr. Crawley, he was talented. He was young, curious and most importantly, humble. He saw each patient as an opportunity to learn and improve himself, and so Mary learned quite a bit as well, as he had an endearing habit of talking through each case, as though he were giving himself encouragement and solving the problem out loud at the same time. If she had a criticism of the young doctor, it was that he smiled too much, especially in her direction. Though her colleagues would have likely enjoyed the attention, Mary kept looking away and avoiding his gaze. She was well aware when a man fancied her, even if it was only a casual interest. Thankfully, Dr. Edgar was not reckless enough to engage her in conversation outside of giving her instructions, thereby sparing her what would surely be an awkward topic.

As she gathered her light jacket and matching hat, she smiled at her reflection in the mirror. Another benefit of changing back into her real clothes with no one else around was being able to avoid curious glances. Her attire was clearly more expensive than those worn by any of the other nurses and staff at the hospital, particularly today as she was dressing up for dinner. She remembered when Matthew had bought her this particular outfit, forcing her to identify the pieces that she liked in the boutique he took her to, then despite her quiet protests, waving over a store clerk and having the lot wrapped up. Though she constantly implored him that they needed to be discreet, when he was feeling amorous, he tended to get a bit out of control.

Checking her reflection one last time in the mirror, she turned to leave. They were meeting in a nearby park before heading on to Trafford Restaurant at the Midland Hotel for dinner. While typically she enjoyed dining with his parents, she was looking forward to a private meal for just the two of them tonight. With Lady Philomena still in London, and Dr. Crawley and Isobel visiting relatives in the country, it was a rare occasion where they were all alone together in Manchester with no commitments or duties to attend to.

As Mary walked outside the dressing room, the large doors to the hospital burst open and a calamity of noise rang out as a small crowd of people came running in. Mary took in the scene as though she were frozen, her gasp strangled and caught in her throat as her eyes widened. A man dressed as a footman was carrying a young woman in his arms, while an older woman was pushing her way past nurses and patients to get to the admitting desk. The young woman's eyes were closed and her head hung loosely against the footman's arm. Her summer frock was ripped, and Mary could see blood on her dress, her slip and her legs. The older woman was gesticulating frantically, her loud voice carrying across the room. Mary's stomach lurched. The young woman reminded Mary of Sybil in appearance; she had the same gentle face and darkish hair.

Two nurses and an orderly came forward to meet the group. They were ushered into an examination room next to where Mary was standing. The young woman was laid out on the table while the familiar entreaties were made for the older woman to calm down.

"No!" she yelled, her eyes wide and her arms flailing in hysteria. "I will not calm down!"

Dr. Edgar arrived first. He had difficulty maneuvering around the older woman, who was firing questions and reciting facts in frantic bursts. The young physician was clearly shocked. His background was in treating patients in the wards, not in dealing with emergencies. For a time he stood transfixed, unsure how to proceed, his polite 'excuse me' completely disregarded.

"Someone did this to my sister!" The older woman yelled violently. "You can tell, can't you? When you see, when you see what's happened to her, you'll know! I want the police here! I want them to find whoever did this!"

Two more orderlies and another nurse rushed past Mary and into the room. They ushered the older woman aside to allow Dr. Edgar to examine her sister. The older woman brought the volume of her voice down from a shout to a growl, repeating herself over and over as she stood back and surveyed the scene.

Before another nurse pulled the curtain around the examination area, Mary saw Dr. Edgar pull back the young woman's torn skirt.

Her thighs were covered in blood.

Mary's hand flew to her mouth and she scampered back into the dressing room. She walked briskly to the small lavatory as she felt the bile rise up from her stomach. She reached the sink just in time as she retched, blinking furiously. She ran the water and rinsed her mouth. Looking at her reflection in the mirror above the sink, Mary took deep breaths to calm herself. As an assistant, she did not deal with trauma cases. By the time she saw patients, they were usually stitched up, cleaned, and on their way to recovery. There was the odd glimpse of blood or a minor cut or scrape. Mary was not deterred by the sight of blood. She had seen plenty of it growing up. Watching a foal being born in the stables. Seeing birds cut up and foxes skinned after a hunt. It wasn't the blood on the young woman that made her queasy, or even the bruises on her face.

It was the thought of how they got there.

* * *

_**Downton Abbey, England, February 1911**_

* * *

The silent battle of wills between Mary and Patrick was continuing with this morning's breakfast. Their struggle had been going on for so long that Mary barely remembered them not being at odds with each other. It flared during her Season just that past summer in London, and had seemingly only escalated with each month since. Truthfully, Mary had to admit that they only ever got along before because they did not discuss their future marriage. Keeping that looming event in the distance allowed them both to hide behind safer subjects and the impersonal shield of propriety. Their ambivalence to each other changed the closer Mary's Season approached. Patrick tried to control where she went, how long she stayed out, and who she fraternized with. He was worse than a governess and nanny put together. Mary finally had snapped at him to leave her alone, which only infuriated him more and led to numerous clashes, including his rude cutting in on her and Evelyn Napier at her own ball.

Upon their return to Yorkshire, Patrick's boorish behaviour only escalated. He began to openly discuss their wedding after New Year's Eve, asking Mary about possible dates and particulars, volunteering his opinion on who they should invite and where they would spend their honeymoon, and even having the audacity to suggest florists and dressmakers. Mary was running out of vague answers and was finding it harder and harder to suppress an eye roll every time he broached the subject of their nuptials.

Mary knew Patrick would be her husband. That was decided long ago and there was no use fighting it. However, she was still clinging to her freedom and putting off moving forward into her new life. She still gladly received letters from men she had met during her Season. While she did not explicitly encourage anyone, she did nothing to deter them either. There was no harm in it in her mind. Her wedding was over a year away at least, hopefully longer if she could help it, and she was entitled to enjoy the fruits of her Season.

Patrick did not agree, and though it was not discussed openly, Cousin James likely did not either. No one was allowed to have any fun unless it was with their express permission apparently. The only rebellion Mary could muster was to flaunt her independence in their faces, taking advantage of the fact that the family wasn't ready to publish news of their engagement just yet. She would be trapped soon enough, and so she was determined to have some pleasant distraction until the day of reckoning arrived. Hence the ongoing war now with Patrick, of which she felt no remorse. She had already seen what she would be getting in him as her husband. Best to show him now that, even as his wife, she would not be controlled so easily.

"Eat your egg," Patrick commanded, waving at the hard boiled lump sitting in an ornate china cup next to her plate. His light tone of voice and warm smile were betrayed by his cold stare.

"Your nourishment is of utmost priority to me, you know," he continued. "Mary's wasting away before our very eyes, don't you think, Cousin Edith? Apparently no one told her that she did not need to fast any longer once her Season was over."

Edith smiled as she looked at her own plate. She did not dare look at Mary, though everyone already knew that Edith enjoyed Patrick's antics. Mary rolled her eyes, stopping herself from groaning out loud, or worse, firing a retort back at her presumptive fiancé. Mary's expression softened slightly as she met Sybil's concerned eyes. She smiled wanly at her youngest sister. Mary did not bother looking to the head of the table to see if her Papa would react and come to her defense. He never did.

James cast a disdainful eye down the table at Mary, who avoided his gaze. She nibbled her toast, deliberately pushing her egg cup to the side.

James' eyes narrowed. These acts of defiance from Mary were becoming tiresome. Patrick needed to get a hold of her, to rein her in properly. James put aside the problem of his son's future wife for the moment, and turned back to his older cousin.

"How are preparations for the Hunt coming?" James asked.

Robert lowered his newspaper enough for James to see and hear him, but he did not bother making eye contact as he continued to read.

"Very well, thank you," Robert said politely. "Everything is under control and will be ready in plenty of time."

"That remains to be seen," James said, trying in vain to draw Robert's gaze. The Earl couldn't keep his own daughter in line, so his assurances that an event as important as the Hunt was under control lacked all credibility with James.

"Are there any further alterations to the guest list? I gave Carson my last additions yesterday, but the final draft has not been provided to me," James said.

Mary picked at her food. Listening to Cousin James made her understand who Patrick got his patronizing voice from. The man simply could not ask a direct question. Every inquiry, regardless of how minor, was used to remind anyone and everyone of his authority.

Robert turned towards Carson and motioned for the butler to approach.

"Carson, give the guest list for the Hunt to Cousin James," Robert said before returning to his newspaper.

James huffed in indignation, raising his hand and motioning for Carson to hurry up and produce the document.

Mary smirked. While her Papa was disappointingly docile in Cousin James' presence, he still found ways to push back, if only superficially.

James' eyes narrowed as he perused the list, desperately searching for any name that he could object to.

"Lady Sarah Kensington?" James asked with forced agitation. "What on Earth is she doing here for…"

"Papa," Patrick interjected, trying to keep his voice low. "I invited her."

"Lady Sarah?" Sybil repeated in confusion. "But isn't she…"

Mary shot Sybil a look and she went silent. Patrick looked at Mary carefully. She kept her expression neutral, but her sisters knew very well that she was seething inside. Lady Sarah Kensington was one of Mary's fiercest rivals. They came out together last summer and competed in everything – who did the most charity work, who had the more exclusive access to the latest fashions, who had the grander debut ball and who had the higher number of suitors. For Patrick to invite her to the Hunt at Downton Abbey was a slap in the face. Even he did not have the audacity to flirt with her rival in her own home, did he?

Mary deliberately pushed her egg cup further away. If she could, she would have picked it up and thrown it at Patrick's face, but she preferred a soft boiled egg for that – it did more damage.

"Oh," James said, his previous indignation forgotten. "Of course, my boy, I remember now. She is stunning," he said with a smile. "And her uncle is Sir Michael Pembroke, who is a cabinet minister. That is the exact type of gentleman we want frequenting these halls on a regular basis."

Mary sighed audibly. She was reaching her limit and breakfast wasn't even over yet. Cousin James would invite the Devil himself and brag that the Lord of the Underworld was coming to Downton.

"The Honourable Evelyn Napier? Why would he be invited? And blast, I can't even read this heathen's name! Cousin," James said contemptuously, looking at Robert. "Your choice of guests leaves much to be desired – these two in particular."

"Evelyn Napier?" Patrick repeated incredulously. He glared across the table at Mary. She dared to meet his stare unflinchingly. She showed him a slow, satisfied smirk, quirking her eyebrow at him in challenge. He grit his teeth and looked away.

Robert sighed as he dropped his newspaper. He adopted the same indifferent and bored tone that he often used when speaking with James.

"Cousin, you are well aware that Viscount Branksome is a dear friend of the family. His son is always welcome here, and is a high ranking officer in the government for your information. As part of his duties, he is hosting a diplomat from Turkey. I don't like his name any more than you, but with the unrest in the Balkans, our government is discreetly trying to steer the various factions in particular direction. If we can have the Ottoman Empire on our side, so much the better, and we'll be able to say that the Grantham family played a part by hosting this foreigner in a proper English Country House. I would have thought you'd be pleased with the opportunity. You should be, anyway," Robert explained.

Mary thought she could see steam come from Cousin James' ears.

"A brilliant idea, Papa. Evelyn is always such pleasant company. Certainly it's our duty to show some English hospitality to his guest as well," Mary said sweetly.

James and Patrick both levelled their eyes upon her. She reached for her tea cup and took a long sip, seemingly without a care in the world.

"Well," James said, handing the guest list back to Carson. "I disagree. This House should be known for hosting the best and most upstanding peers of England. I have no use for a Turk, and neither does this family. As I expect the invitations have already been sent, and as revoking the Turk's invitation is to also reject Mr. Napier, there's nothing to be done. However, I object to both of them being here, the Turk in particular. I won't risk our family reputation on an international incident, and so I will be watching them closely, Cousin, and you will be held responsible for anything that should go wrong," James declared haughtily.

"You will hold me responsible?" Robert frowned in reply. He paused, then smiled tightly at James. "My dear chap. Assume not the worst of men before you know them. The Hunt should be a merry time as we honour such a fine English tradition. Remember the joy we had as teenagers on our first Hunt? Do not be so quick to scrutinize others lest you end up missing all the fun."

"This is not Parliament, Lord Grantham," James said icily. "You do not have to lobby for my vote, instead you need to ask for my approval; which you did not, and the consequence is that you shall answer for your guests, and I shall answer for mine. And spare me the nostalgia of days gone by, Cousin. I remember an obstinate bully deliberately spurring my horse and trying to make me the laughing stock in front of the then Earl, your father. Your petty schemes did not work then, and they shall not work now."

"Your father forgets himself, and the terms of his agreement with Papa," Patrick said pointedly, looking at Mary, then Edith. "Forgetting one's obligations seems to be a sickness running through part of this family."

Mary did roll her eyes this time. Patrick sneered. Edith swallowed nervously.

"Girls," Robert said tactfully. "Would you excuse us while we talk business?"

Mary quickly rose and Sybil followed her lead. Edith stayed rooted to her chair, glancing at Patrick. Mary hissed her name and glared at her, which compelled her sister to finally rise and follow them. Mary was in no mood to discuss what had taken place or to answer Sybil's questions. She left her sisters in the Great Hall and went up to her bedroom.

Thoughts of the Hunt reminded Mary of a pressing problem she had to address. Her riding boots had gone missing in the past week. She had sent them downstairs to be polished and they had never been returned. As of last night, Anna had still not been able to find them. Mary knew it was far from mere coincidence that her boots had disappeared with the Hunt approaching. Women were not encouraged to ride, and the fact that Mary continued to do so each year was an annoyance to Patrick in particular. Well, the fact that she continued to ride in the Hunt and was far superior to him at it were the source of his annoyance.

If her boots could not be located soon, there would be no time to replace them, and she would not be permitted to participate in the Hunt. Mary cursed her cousin's name, not for the first time. She was convinced he had planned this deliberately, which only sharpened her resolve to not let him win. She'd steal Edith's boots if she had to.

"Milady," Anna said with a warm smile as Mary entered the room.

"Did you find them?" Mary said with a hopeful expression of excitement.

"Yes," she said and she pulled them from a large carpet bag. "All is well again. Mr. Carson found them in Louis's room last night."

Mary's jaw dropped at the revelation. Louis was Patrick's valet. How like him! Just enough distance not to link the theft directly to Patrick himself, but with sufficient connection that Mary would get the message that Patrick did not want her to ride in the Hunt.

"What was his excuse for having them in his possession?"

"His stutter rather convinced Mr. Carson that he didn't know why he actually had them. He didn't remember being responsible for polishing them, and he was quite surprised they were found in his room. I feel bad for Louis; he is rather simple after all."

"You are far kinder than I am, Anna," Mary said as she looked over her boots, satisfied they were in proper condition.

"Mr. Carson did not feel it was appropriate to investigate further," Anna continued. "I think he's afraid to confront Mr. Patrick."

"Quite right," Mary said with contempt. "Besides, the man would just come up with a lie to weasel out of it. Some fable such as wanting to know my boot size to buy me a present. Please return these to Carson, and ask that he keep them in his locker until the Hunt. I don't even think my own room is safe anymore."

Anna took the boots back and smiled wanly at her Mistress.

"It's all right, Anna," Mary said, calming down a bit. "I'm sure once we're married, Patrick will be kinder. And, even if he's not, we won't see much of each other so life won't change overly much."

Anna nodded and curtsied before she left the room. Mary went to her window and looked out on to the vast manicured lawns of her home. Patrick's behaviour was becoming more and more unsettling. She knew they would not have a loving marriage, but he was now getting on her nerves, everything he did setting her teeth on edge. She sighed as watched the men at work, preparing for the Hunt. Her last Hunt as a single woman. She would make it one to be remembered.

* * *

_**Trafford Restaurant at the Midland Hotel, Manchester, England, August 1912**_

* * *

"Penny for your thoughts?" Matthew smiled warmly as he watched Mary stirring her soup. She had yet to taste it even though the chilled tomato and dill mousse was her favourite.

"They are not worthy of such an inflated price," Mary said sullenly. She desperately wished she could shake her melancholy that had set in since she left the hospital. Matthew was patient with her, not pushing for any explanation during their quiet walk over to the hotel and her lack of response. She couldn't help herself. Dark clouds lingered above her every thought.

"I can afford to pay whatever price gains me your conversation. I have all the time in the world," Matthew said, unfazed. He reached across the table and took her hand.

"If your mood doesn't improve soon, I will be forced to take you shopping," he said tenderly. "You will leave me no choice."

"You've already bought me this entire outfit," Mary said, raising her eyes at him.

"Not the _entire_ outfit," Matthew smirked playfully.

She withdrew her hand and blushed, unable to stop a smile from creeping across her lips.

"Actually, yes you have. The _entire_ outfit," she whispered, not looking at him.

Matthew grinned widely. "I may not be able to take your word for that. I may need to confirm it myself."

Mary bit her bottom lip. The nerve of this man!

"You really are overwhelmingly good to me," she said quietly. "And you shouldn't be. I don't deserve it."

"Stop," Matthew said firmly. He pushed his own soup bowl away.

"What are you doing?" she frowned.

"I'm protesting," he said easily. "You're clearly bothered by something and this meal is being affected by it. I refuse to eat another spoonful until you tell me what it is."

"Matthew! You're being impossible," she scolded him.

"Not at all, darling," he whispered back. "The soup is already cold, so waiting will not matter at all. Your mood however, must be addressed immediately."

Mary glanced around. They were in a secluded corner of the restaurant, Matthew's foresight once again much appreciated. There were no other patrons within five tables of them, and no concern they would be overheard. It was questionable if anyone would even spot them at all.

"You win," Mary smiled bravely. How could she deny him anything? She put down her spoon and looked into his waiting gaze.

"I received a letter from Sybil today," Mary began.

Matthew nodded for her to continue as he took a sip of his chilled ice wine. The hot weather made the drink quite soothing to the sweltering environment.

"She says that the family, like Lady Philomena, is still in London for the Season. Normally they only stay through early July, but apparently Lord Grantham wanted to spend August there as well, to show everyone that nothing is amiss despite James and Patrick still missing. Anyway, everyone fashionable is now there, naturally, and Evelyn Napier asked about me," Mary paused. "Despite my reputation, he was kind enough to ask her how I was getting on."

Matthew smiled at this news, however he was perplexed as to why this seemed to have upset Mary, rather than be a relief to her.

"Isn't that welcome news?" He inquired gently.

"Yes," Mary said softly. "Even if I will never speak to him again, it was nice of him to ask about me. Except, it made me think – why is it that I find kindness from everyone except my own parents?"

"I couldn't say," Matthew replied, genuinely sympathetic. "It's hard for me to fathom how any parent could not be concerned for you."

"They're concerned, but not for me," Mary sighed. "I shudder to think of what would happen if Lord Grantham were to meet your father."

"Don't fret about that situation; Papa will never go to Downton, even if he does become the heir," Matthew said.

"You don't know that," Mary replied. "I know that's what he says, but when he realizes how many people rely on the Earl of Grantham, he won't be so dismissive," Mary said nervously. She exhaled a shaky breath. "On top of my sister's letter, I saw something at the hospital earlier that was unsettling, and it won't leave my mind."

"What was it?" Matthew asked.

"A young woman was brought in as I was leaving. She's about Sybil's age. I can't say for sure, but it looked like she was…violated," Mary said quietly.

Matthew's eyes widened. "Oh, Mary. I'm so sorry."

Mary nodded in thanks. "I didn't expect such a thing to still affect me so. But I can't stop thinking about it, and now…I just don't have any appetite."

"It's no worry," Matthew said kindly. "Let's go somewhere more private and talk."

"Back to your house?" Mary asked shakily. "I don't want the servants to see me blubbering, not again."

"No. Somewhere closer," Matthew smiled, dangling a key from his hand.

"Goodness!" Mary said in surprise. "You're very well prepared, Mr. Crawley. You must have used the same strategy to bed any number of women. Get them talking and pounce during their moment of weakness?"

"No," Matthew disagreed. "I don't know very much about women at all. I just have an overwhelming concern for one Lady in particular."

"I've ruined our dinner," Mary shook her head.

"I'll have the food sent up…later," Matthew said kindly. He rose from his chair and offered her his arm.

Mary accepted gratefully. She welcomed the distraction of being alone with Matthew, even though she knew it would only be a temporary respite.

* * *

**Downton Abbey, England, February 1911**

* * *

Mary mounted her horse with excitement. It was going to be wicked fun to participate in the Hunt. She felt a definitive sense of contentment as she was completely in her element. Out on the field, with Diamond, the only limits on her the distant horizon. Patrick was a lousy rider and she knew he would not be able to match the speed she could maintain on horseback. He was still walking around inspecting the hunting dogs. His behaviour was laughable, for the animals had natural instincts that would always surpass his need for control. Patrick would never understand that about the beauty of nature in harmony during a hunt. He had neither patience, nor any coordination. Patrick was simply a trumped up ninny. Mary muffled her laughter as he was clumsy and tripped, almost falling into a small puddle on his path. He turned his gaze in her direction and scowled with impetuousness as he adjusted his scarlet hunting jacket. Mary thought he rather reminded her of Little Red Riding Hood. She lowered her eyes further to conceal her amusement. She looked up at the sound of approaching hoof beats and smiled as Evelyn Napier approached. She was glad for the distraction.

"What a charming morning it is," he said pleasantly. "I can already tell that you will own the day, Lady Mary," he praised her. "You seem perfectly calm and composed, and your horse appears as though he would deal cards if you told him to."

Mary smiled as she stroked her horse affectionately. "Diamond and I always work well together," she said with confidence.

"My mount's as jumpy as a Deb at her first ball. So, I shall be happy to follow your gracious lead, should that please you," Evelyn continued.

"What about Mr. Pamuk? If he tumbles, do we endanger peace in the Balkans?" Mary asked jovially.

"Hardly," Evelyn said with a chuckle. "Although he is a bit of dandy, he knows what he is doing on a horse."

"Mary, pay attention," Patrick said, interrupting as he approached on his own horse. As usual, he paid no attention to Evelyn. "You and everyone else shall follow my lead. Papa has given the authority to me to ride out first."

There was chilled silence between them, made all the more disconcerting even with the background noise of the hunting dogs barking eagerly.

"Mary has a zest for riding that can be inappropriate. She forgets herself easily when she is in the saddle. I do apologize for my cousin," Patrick said rigidly in Evelyn's direction.

"On the contrary," Evelyn spoke up, "I was praising Lady Mary for her riding ability."

"Lady Mary does not require praise, and certainly not from you," Patrick said with a biting snub.

Mary rolled her eyes at Patrick's crude behaviour. She turned her gaze to Evelyn and was about to speak when he looked away and smiled. The sound of an approaching horse made her turn in the same direction. The foreigner that Evelyn was hosting came into view, riding up on a black stallion. His dark eyes found hers and he smirked at her as he came closer.

Mary's mouth fell open in surprise. She quickly closed it and resumed her calm demeanour. She had never seen such an exotic looking man before, his dark complexion and olive toned skin was fascinating. He certainly did not look like a dandy. Mounted on horseback, he had the air of a centurion.

"Lady Mary, I presume?" His English surprised her, with only the hint of an accent. She found the sound charming.

She tightened her grip on the reins and she smiled politely, hoping she was not blushing.

"You presume right," Mary said with a graceful smile. She held his gaze unable to look away.

"Allow me to present myself, I am Kemal Pamuk," he said removing his hat and bowing his head. "What a thoroughly enriching spectacle I see before me," he said with relish.

"Indeed," Mary returned, "I hope it will live up to your expectations," she said, feeling a strange pleasure in maintaining this conversation beyond mere greetings.

"This may be my first English Hunt, but I know the process of pursuit very well," Kemal said easily. "I'm afraid, much like my horse, I can be rather relentless when the bit is between my teeth."

Mary swallowed. Was flirting in Turkey the same as flirting in England?

Patrick cleared his throat and removed a flask tucked into his boot. Mary quickly made an excuse to leave the gentlemen, saying she needed a word with Lynch before the Hunt began. She did, however, look back over her shoulder and was stunned to see that the foreigner winked at her. She turned quickly away, afraid another blush would betray the emotions swirling inside her chest.

As she approached, Lynch reassured her that they were moments away from departure.

"I won't need you to follow me, Lynch. I will have my two champions to left and right, Mr. Napier and his guest," Mary said with excitement.

"Two, milady?" Lynch asked, looking past her at the Evelyn and Kemal, who were talking casually to each other. Patrick was several paces away, nudging his horse towards the front of the pack. "Mr. Patrick will surely not approve of that."

"Oh, hang him," Mary replied with a smile. "My duty is to show our guests the full splendor of the Hunt, especially Mr. Pamuk as he is a novice at such things. Which way will the course be set?"

"I'm suggesting through the south field," Lynch replied with some hesitation. "You know that His Lordship expects me to be responsible for your well being," he added with a nervous tick.

"Never mind me," Mary said dramatically. "I can handle the terrain. And therefore I will be taking our guests through the briar patch," she smiled as she rode off without another word.

Lynch sighed at the exhibition before him. He had half a mind to stop his wilful Mistress until he saw Patrick whip his horse severely, without reason. No, Lady Mary was certainly not the problem. He could trust her, and he could also handle Mr. Patrick's wrath should he need to distract the caddish man. Lynch signalled to the Master of the Hunt. Once Patrick took up his position and raised his arm, the trumpet blared and the Hunt began.

* * *

_**Midland Hotel, Pearl Suite, Manchester, England, August 1912**_

* * *

"It sounds adventurous," Matthew said as he kissed her shoulder.

"It was. It was thrilling," Mary agreed, leaning her head to the side to invite him to kiss her neck. His arms wrapped around her waist and she sighed, sitting back against his chest and enjoying the feel of him encircling her, guarding her, keeping her safe.

The curtain danced back and forth from a breeze through the open window. Matthew always preferred staying on the higher floors of the hotel. 'For the view' he told her, but she expected it was for her own benefit, so that they would not be seen by any random eyes from the ground below. Once they had reached their suite, she had discovered a bath drawn for her. He urged her to relax and was even kind enough to give her privacy to be alone with her thoughts. She had emerged from the bathroom wearing only a robe, finding him sitting up in bed reading. He had put his book down and smiled at her, holding out his arms and welcoming her to sit with him.

"You already know what happened later, though," Mary said softly. She nuzzled her nose into his neck and inhaled his scent as though it was a lovely sleeping draught.

"Yes," he said soothingly. He kissed her again and she cuddled closer to him. "But, tell me again. Talk it out darling, talk until your heartache lessens and your ghosts are exorcised."

"I'll run out of breath for that," she said wistfully. "And despite your best efforts, it seems my ghosts shall haunt me for many years to come."

"My best efforts? Oh no, Mary, I've barely just begun. Although I would hope that our time together has shown you that I don't care what some witless fool with a title thinks of you, or what has happened in your past."

"Convince me again," she whispered into his ear, turning in his arms and sitting in his lap. "I love creating new memories with you, Matthew."

Mary kissed his cheek, then his neck, unbuttoning his shirt quickly. She tasted his skin, exposing more of him as she moved lower down his body. He eventually took hold of her and gently turned them over, his body warm against hers. She removed the rest of his clothing and lost herself in his loving touch, banishing her demons once again, if only for a short while.

* * *

_**Downton Abbey, England, February 1911**_

* * *

Mary emerged from her bedroom and jumped in shock. She frowned as Patrick stood in the doorway, blocking her path.

"Patrick," she said brusquely. "Have you gotten lost?"

"Not at all. I have urgent business to discuss with my fiancée," Patrick said. He grabbed her wrist and stepped towards her.

Mary's eyes widened in alarm. His grip was firm and strong, and his breath smelled of alcohol, making her want to gag.

"I'm warning you, Mary. No antics at dinner," he snarled.

Mary winced as she tried to free her hand from his strong grasp. She wished someone would come out to the hall and see them as she was pinned against her bedroom door, except everyone was still occupied dressing for dinner apparently.

"Let me go," Mary seethed.

"Your behaviour at the Hunt was pathetic," Patrick taunted. "Taking off with Napier and that heathen by yourself, doing God knows what out of my view. I've tried to be fair with you, but you always push me past the limits that any gentleman can endure." He batted at the elegant feather she had in her hair and Mary flinched.

"All will be forgiven, my sweetheart," he said as he pressed his weight more firmly against her, his legs stepping between her own. "If you give me a kiss and apologize."

"Patrick!" Mary cried with agitation. It wasn't the first time she had found herself in such a horrible confinement with him pressing his demands. "You know this is not proper."

Edith's door opened and she came out into the hallway. She stopped and gasped when she discovered the scene in front of Mary's bedroom. Mary took advantage of Patrick's temporary distraction and pulled her arm from his grasp. She stopped herself from slapping him and quickly departed down the hall, not even waiting for her sister.

Patrick glared at her retreating form, then left in the opposite direction, ignoring Edith completely.

"What was that all about?" Edith said as she caught up to Mary on the staircase leading to the Great Hall. "What kind of game are you two playing?"

"Never you mind," Mary said harshly. "It's between me and my fiancé. It's none of your concern." She adjusted her gloves to hide the mark Patrick's hold had left on her wrist.

Once at the dinner table, Mary could finally relax. She ignored the daggers that Patrick sent her with his eyes and continued to chat amiably with Evelyn. She knew Patrick would not dare try anything in front of all these guests, and she was eager to put him back in his place. How dare he put his hands on her? Mary sipped her wine as she listened to Evelyn tell her another tale from his daily duties with the government. While his conversation was rather boring, his interest served her purpose. Patrick was boiling at the attention she was receiving. Determined to twist the knife further into his side, Mary turned deliberately to Kemal Pamuk and smiled warmly to him.

"Mr. Pamuk, what is Istanbul like?" Sybil asked with curiosity.

"It is a strategic city of wondrous majesty, with bazaars of beauty, delicate and intransigent. And one thing we share with this country is the _sis_, or as you would say, fog. It amazes me to travel so far and find something so illusive having such dominance here as well as in my homeland," Kemal said smoothly.

"The fog was invasive this morning on the Hunt," Mary said as she sipped her wine. "I hardly knew which direction I was riding," she added with a chuckle.

"And yet you rode as though you could have steered your horse with your eyes closed," Kemal smiled at Mary. "You should come see my family stables in Turkey. Truly incredible beasts we have."

"The ferry ride and train to Istanbul are rather long and arduous, I'm afraid," Evelyn said.

"Yes, wouldn't the journey be painful?" Mary asked, caught off guard by the invitation of the Turk.

"One must endure a little pain to achieve satisfaction," Kemal replied, staring intently at Mary.

Robert looked about the dining room table. He noticed that Mary's conversation with Evelyn Napier and the Turk, Kemal Pamuk, was now drawing the attention of Patrick and James.

"I fear Cousin Mary would not be able to go to Turkey without a full entourage. She knows nothing of your ways," Patrick said, sipping his wine. "We would all be terrified for her safety."

"I would personally see to it that she is very well taken care of," Kemal replied with annoyance evident in his voice. "As I would extend the same courtesy to any of you who wish to visit."

"Thank you, _Mr. Pam-ek_," James replied. "But that won't be necessary. There's no need to travel when all one could ever desire is here in England."

"Lady Mary," Kemal said as turned his attention abruptly. "I'm very curious to see the first edition of _One Thousand and One Arabian Nights_ that you mentioned."

She blushed at the attention. "Yes, it was an acquisition of the first Earl of Grantham and has been in our library here for more than two hundred years."

"I've always loved the story of Scheherazade," Kemal continued. "A woman who could entice a man with words for a thousand nights, a talent few women could achieve."

Mary couldn't help but stare into the foreigner's eyes and she nervously fidgeted with her necklace. She was rendered speechless by this man's gaze.

"I'd also like to see this book," Evelyn broke in. "If Lady Mary recommends it, I'm sure the experience will be well worth the time."

"Well," Robert said with unease. "Shall we let the ladies go through? As luck would have it, I do have some Turkish tobacco in my humidor."

"Yes," James said with agitation. "My Cousin fancies himself a bit of a Sultan," he said laughing in amusement as though he had just made a clever joke.

Mary smiled at the fun of having antagonized her relations. She smiled politely at Evelyn and bashfully at Kemal. Her Mama called for her as her sisters were already exiting from the dinning room. She strode from the room, excited to find the book that had so enticed her two champions.

* * *

_**Midland Hotel, Pearl Suite, Manchester, England, August 1912**_

* * *

"You are rather like Scheherazade," Matthew said fondly, stroking her bare back. "And I foresee that you shall captivate me for far more than a thousand nights. I fall in love with you more every day as I understand how nice you truly are."

"You think me nice, but no one else does," Mary said with hesitation, "What makes you so sure that I am?"

"Because I get to see you naked, and hold you in my arms. Because I know the real you. You're strong, unbroken, unchanged. You've suffered and still you stand."

"Goodness. What a testimonial," Mary said as she turned her head towards him and kissed him lightly.

"Do you feel better now?" Matthew asked, running his fingers along her back.

"Yes, but it doesn't change anything," Mary sighed against his chest. "Even you can't change what I've done."

"Mary…" Matthew said.

"No, Matthew," she sighed. "I was foolish, and I was paid out for my folly. But all of my behaviour, my misplaced rebellious ways, everything that went wrong, all of that led me to you, so in a way I'm grateful." She kissed him fiercely to demonstrate her point.

"I only wish I had not fallen so far to have to find my saviour in you," she said quietly, returning to his chest.

* * *

_**Downton Abbey, England, February 1911**_

* * *

"That is indeed a fine edition of a Persian classic," Kemal said as he touched the book Mary placed in his hands. It had gold tipped pages and a fine leather bound cover.

"The western fascination with this saga never fails to amuse me," he added. "So predictable."

Mary was confused by his last comment, but she didn't concentrate on it.

She was too busy avoiding Patrick's glaring. At least he was occupied by Lady Sarah Kensington, and could only shadow her from across the room, rather than be right next to her.

"What's in that room?" Kemal asked suddenly. "More paintings that you can educate me on?"

"Yes, but perhaps we should wait for Evelyn," Mary said carefully, looking over at the darkened parlour. Carson had turned out the lights to dissuade guests from wandering.

"Oh, he's been here before, hasn't he? I'm sure he won't care to see the paintings again. I, on the other hand, will likely never visit again, so it's only right that you show me everything that you have to offer while I am here, isn't it?" Kemal smiled.

"If you wish," Mary said. Perhaps it was a good idea. She could use the escape from Patrick's unwavering oversight.

They walked into the parlour and Kemal wandered over to a large painting in the middle of the wall.

"Is this a Della Francesca?" he asked, glancing back at Mary.

She came over to get a better look.

"I think so. The…"

She was cut off as Kemal reached for her and kissed her fiercely. His boldness was surprising and the attention she had been enjoying all night now felt strange and unwelcome. She tried to resist, but he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding across her closed lips, a clammy sensation she had never felt before. His hands framed her face, holding her in place, stopping her from moving. Finally, the kiss ended and she gasped for breath, pulling back from him but still trapped in his embrace as his hands went to her hips and fondled her bottom through her dress. Kissing him was like sucking on a spice bag. Mary had coughed before she spoke.

"Mr. Pamuk!" she said in shock and agitation. She pushed against his chest as he seemed determined to resume the kiss.

"What on Earth is this?" Patrick yelled as he entered the room. The anger of his voice was fermented in all of his actions. His hands clenched at his side. Mary had never been so glad to see the wretched Patrick, if only for allowing her the chance to disengage from Kemal.

"Get your heathen paws off of her!" Patrick continued as he stomped towards them.

Kemal remained silent, but surprisingly unaffected by being caught out. He offered no apology and simply bowed slightly before leaving the room abruptly. Before she could say anything though, Patrick was upon her, standing a mere breath away.

"You'll pay for this, Mary," he said furiously. "Denying me for so long and yet allowing that infidel to claim your lips so easily?"

He stomped away from her, leaving her alone.

Laughter filtered in from the room where their family and guests were assembled. Mary was silent, her voice taken by shock and indignation. Did Patrick honestly believe she had invited Pamuk's assault? A part of her hoped that Patrick's drunken threats would be forgotten in the morning. She held her head up high and quickly darted back to the safety of her Mama and sisters. However, she felt a knot in her stomach when she saw Cousin James watching her as she crossed the room. He smiled at her and shook his head subtly in a small gesture of scolding.

"Mary," Sybil said fondly. "Mama wants to play bridge, would you join us?"

"Of course," she said taking a deep breath to level her nerves.

Mary's hands shook as she held the book in front of her. With all of the day's excitement, she could not sleep. And in all fairness, she couldn't concentrate on reading either. She couldn't help but feel a sense of dread regarding her fiancé. Would Patrick still hold his irrational view that she would willingly kiss another man under his very nose? And further, Cousin James also seemed to have formed an especially rotten view of her recent conduct; therefore, even if Patrick forgot about what he saw between her and Kemal, Cousin James would be sure to remind him. Her cousins were both like heartless children, fickle and incapable of maintaining dignity due to their status. A leech had more purpose than they did. Mary couldn't understand why her father contended with such nonsense from their ill-bred relations.

* * *

Later as she sat in bed, Mary sighed as she once again tried to concentrate on her book. It wasn't as though Mary's dislike for Patrick, and even for James, was a secret. It was obvious that they didn't get along. But it was equally clear that Mary would do her duty and her wedding would proceed as planned. Up until tonight, her flirting was just harmless fun, a way for her to be the centre of attention for a while longer before her engagement became official. She knew she could handle whatever Patrick threw at her, but there was something about his expression when he last spoke to her, when he fired his last threat. He looked far more sinister in that moment than she'd ever seen him before.

She had finally been able to turn the page of her book when the door to her bedroom unexpectedly opened. Mary gasped as Patrick entered. His eyes were bloodshot and he staggered drunkenly through after closing the door behind him with great effort. In his gaze was a primal lust that scared her.

"Are you mad?" She said as she dropped the book and pulled up the covers to hide her nightgown. "Leave this instant or I will scream!"

Patrick only laughed. He stopped at the foot of her bed and with unexpected dexterity he pointed his left index finger at her and with his right he rubbed against it.

"Tsk, Tsk," he muttered with a little clucking sound. "Shame on you, dear Mary."

"What do you want?" Mary hissed, her pulse racing in alarm. She had never been so exposed before Patrick before. She felt as though he could stare through the blanket covering her, that the mere glimpse of her nightgown was already too revealing to him.

"Oh, I think you are very well aware of what I want," Patrick snarled, his gaze roaming across her body despite the blanket between them. "I've come to allow you to perform your duty to me," he smiled wickedly.

"Get out!" Mary snarled. "You're drunk and clearly delusional!"

"And you are forgetting, once again, who you are beholden to!" he shot back. "Do you actually think you are bestowing a privilege upon me by marrying me? May I remind you who is the heir to the Grantham Estate? You need me far more than I need you, Mary."

Mary swallowed. The truth of his words were a crushing blow that tightened her chest.

"You can't touch me. Not like that, not yet, and you know why not," Mary said, forcing her voice to not quiver and reveal the terror that was coursing through her body.

"I can't?" Patrick repeated incredulously. He smiled, a wicked grin that chilled Mary's spine. "Oh, but I can, Mary. I can do whatever I want with you. Whether it's now or on our wedding night, you will not refuse me if you value your future," he said rashly. "I will have you over a barrel one way or another," he laughed at his own horrible joke.

"Go on and scream, Mary," Patrick continued, taunting her. "Who shall ride to your rescue? Napier? The Turk? No, they're in the Bachelors' Wing. They couldn't hear you even if I were to summon them. The servants? Do you really think that the word of that wretch of a lady's maid of yours would be believed over mine? No, that just leaves your sisters and your parents. And who do you think would champion his child's cause more fiercely? My Papa…or yours?"

"Patrick," Mary said with a shiver, her nerves shaken by his unprecedented vulgarity. "We'll be married, just as we agreed, and I will…I will do…I will do my duty to you then, not now."

"Mary, Mary quite contrary," he hummed with a small sinister laugh. He thumped his fist on the end of her bed and leaned onto the bedpost. "I've always wanted you Mary, to possess you completely as my own. Through the years, I've tethered my patience to your happiness and suffered rebuke after rebuke. And for what did I enjoy in this condescension? Nothing!" His voice rose loudly and echoed throughout the room.

Mary bit her lip at the hopelessness of her situation. She had thought someone could rescue her if she screamed loud enough. Carson, Anna, she would even hug Edith and shower her with kisses if she were to come into her room now. But Patrick was right. No one could hear them. And even if they did, and someone came, who would believe her or defend her against Patrick's conspiracy and treachery? Downton Abbey was a tomb at night. How many times had she taken advantage of how sound never travelled through the walls to sneak down to the library or the kitchens at night?

"It seems I lost the bet," he slurred, glancing around the room in an exaggerated fashion. "The Turk is not here as we assumed, warming the cockle shells of your heart. I must have just missed him as the last of the lovers you invited into your bed tonight."

Patrick laughed, "I owe Papa a guinea."

Mary's anger flared. Her precarious position was terrifying, but Patrick's words incensed her.

"Why are you even here?" she shot back. "Was Lady Kensington's room too far away for you?"

"Not at all," Patrick shook his head lazily. "I've just come from there, in fact."

Mary's eyes widened and her mouth fell open in horror. "You bastard!" she snarled.

Patrick's laugh was cold and made her shiver.

"Is that the best you can do, Mary?" he chuckled. "Lady Kensington used that same barb when I refused to propose to her during your Season. Oh yes, I've already had her, among others. And yet, she readily accepted my invitation and came running here, desperate to see me. She was once proud and dismissive towards me as you are, Mary. Yes, you have much in common with your bitter rival."

Mary swallowed, her mind spinning at each scandal Patrick was now revealing.

"But she spread her legs for me eventually, Mary. More than once in fact. Oh, but don't worry. After we're married, I'll keep my visits with her discreet. With you doing your duty to me, I'll only need to fuck her once or twice a week at most," Patrick said casually as though he were reading the newspaper rather than spewing such filth.

Mary's hands tightened on the blanket. "You're a monster!" she sputtered.

"I'm many things, dearest Mary," Patrick said thickly, walking around the bed with startling speed. He sat down next to her, his weight against her thigh, his lips dangerously close. "Most importantly, I'm your fiancé. And I've decided we need to practice for our wedding night, now."

He was over her and Mary fell backward from his heavy weight. She had no time to think; she kicked with her legs and flailed, throwing her fists at him. Patrick dodged the majority of her defensive actions; however, his motor skills were dulled by his inebriation. She made contact with his side and pushed with all her might and Patrick rolled from the bed. He landed on the floor with a loud thump.

"You bitch!" he said as he howled in pain.

Mary stared at her bedroom door wondering if she should try and escape. She could exit her room and lock herself in the bathroom perhaps.

"You're going to regret that, I'll make you regret everything!" Patrick grunted as he pulled himself up into a sitting position. His breath was coming in sharp gasps and Mary could see his face was flushing red with rage.

Mary shuddered, even though all of her instincts told her bolt; she was frozen in place. She could not will her limbs to move, and Patrick's cold words reverberated in her mind. She needed her parents and all she could imagine was their disapproving glance and their telling her to shut up and be quiet so as to not anger Cousin James.

"Do you have any idea how miserable I could make your life, Mary?" Patrick yelled, rubbing the back of his head and wincing. "Who do you think shall wield all the power when your spineless father passes on? Your Mama, your sisters, they could all be cast out at one word from me! The means of their continued privileged life are in your hands, and by God you will obey me!"

Patrick hurled himself to his feet and advanced upon her.

"No more, Mary," Patrick glared at her cruelly. "No more fighting, no more resistance. From now on, you will spread your legs at my command and receive me gratefully, and neither of us will tell a soul. That way, your virtue will be intact until our wedding day, and no one need be the wiser. You'll moan like a whore by the time I'm finished with you, and then I'll have you, again and again, and as many times as I want, now, tomorrow, next week, next month, and all the years of our marriage."

Patrick's face curled into a wicked grin. Mary swallowed and tensed, the tears flowing freely from her eyes as he pulled the blankets from her weak grasp. He lay himself on top of her, licking her sobbing face and pressing his hips against hers.

"I own you, Mary," he hissed.

Mary closed her eyes tight.

* * *

_**Midland Hotel, Pearl Suite, Manchester, England, August 1912**_

* * *

"I had no choice. He forced me to do it," Mary said as tears pooled in her eyes. "Little did I know that Cousin James and Patrick had planned everything in advance. It didn't matter what I did that night. They were going to teach me a lesson, and they did. I got my comeuppance. I got what I deserved."

"No," Matthew said fiercely. "Don't say that, don't think that and don't ever let yourself believe that."

Mary turned towards him and caressed his cheek with her hand. "You're a darling and I love you. But you didn't know me then, Matthew. I was a vain and foolish young woman, arrogant, entitled, spoiled. I would have ridiculed your middle class background if we had met back then. You would have hated me."

"Never," Matthew said. "I would have seen in you what I see in you now – that there is far more to you than just being a pretty face and the Earl of Grantham's eldest daughter."

She leaned over and kissed him softly. "I wonder if I had just been nicer to Patrick, more docile, more compliant, if any of this would have happened."

"You would end up suffering for it, Mary. Dare I say you would suffer more than you are today if you had ended up marrying that cad," Matthew said.

"You shouldn't always take my side," Mary shook her head. "I'm am a disagreeable woman."

"I know that," Matthew laughed. "Are you forgetting that we've had more than our share of arguments."

"And yet, our arguments always seem to end with us doing what we've just done tonight," Mary raised her eyebrow at him.

"Entirely a coincidence, darling," Matthew smirked. "The fact remains that if young Mr. Patrick didn't perish on the Titanic, I would like to kill the imbecile with my own two hands," he said seriously.

"No, you wouldn't," Mary said her voice strained and yet resilient. "That is not in your character. But, thank you for saying as much, my honour though is no longer at stake. It vanished that night and can never return."

"This is one argument Mary," Matthew said as he kissed her softly on the crown of her head. "That I do not enjoy having with you." He squeezed her in his loving embrace. "Let's fight about something else now, shall we?"

"Who can finish dinner first, perhaps?" Mary said gently. She wiped away her tears. "You can call for room service to bring up what we ordered downstairs?"

"Oh no," Matthew said with a wicked smile. "I was anticipating something more fun."

"More fun than food?" Mary said with mock confusion. She turned and slid up his body, her face coming level with his. "What else could we fight about that is better than that?"

"Let's fight about who's louder. I say it's you," Matthew said before he flipped them over and kissed her neck. His hand travelled down her side and pushed her thigh to his side.

Mary laughed. She hooked her leg across his hip. Her hand moved between them and took hold of him, bringing a groan from him as he kissed her shoulder.

"Have a go, Matthew. Your voice will be hoarse by the time I'm done with you," she hissed.

Matthew fleetingly thought he had perhaps taken on too big of a challenge as Mary's hand moved faster on him. He captured her mouth and he focused on the feel of her body beneath him, her enthusiastic response thrilling him. It wasn't important who won this particular argument between them, but they were both determined to make it a rather long debate.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Downton Abbey, England, February 1911**_

* * *

The last car in the long convoy disappeared down the driveway. Cora nodded and turned, heading back into the house. Sybil and Edith followed. Mary stood staring into the distance, the slight chill in the early morning air barely disturbing her. The guests had now departed and Downton Abbey was back to its normal compliment of residents – her family, the servants, and of course, Cousin James and Cousin Patrick.

Truth be told, she was sorry to see the guests depart, in particular Evelyn Napier. She had barely said two words to him when she came down for breakfast. He had smiled at her and attempted to make conversation, but her friendly and playful flirting from the night before was gone. His guest, Kemal Pamuk, wisely stayed silent and did not engage her. After his deplorable behaviour from the previous evening, Mary made no move to even acknowledge his presence. The two men were perplexed by her reserved demeanor, each of them for different reasons, but before she could think to change her mood, Cousin Patrick came down to the morning room, and she ended all attempts at pleasantries as she felt his gaze upon her.

Mary sighed. The guests were gone. The Hunt was over. Though she hadn't spoken to the majority of the guests, who were mostly friends of her parents, she felt strangely alone.

"Mary, come," Cora called.

Mary turned and walked back into the house.

The servants dispersed to their various duties. Mary pondered what she would do until luncheon. Her Papa was in the library with Cousin James and Cousin Patrick, and she was glad they had not bothered to say goodbye to the guests. The less time she spent in the same vicinity as Patrick the better. She decided on going back up to her room and reading when the door to the library opened and the Earl of Grantham stepped out.

"Cora," Robert called. "Please come in with the girls."

Mary swallowed nervously. Why were they being summoned? Any business that Robert discussed with James and Patrick was usually kept amongst the three of them. The women of the house weren't told anything unless it affected them directly, and even then nothing was divulged unless the men deemed it necessary. Mary rolled her eyes as she watched her Mama and sisters move dutifully into the library. She did not want to set foot in that room with Patrick there as well, but it could not be helped. She shook her head. Patrick was her fiancé. She would be spending a great deal of time with him in the coming months leading up to their wedding, and so she had better get used to being ordered around at every turn. She steeled herself and followed the others into the library, hoping this would be something as mundane as announcing which dreary neighbours were coming to dinner next.

Mary kept her expression cold and blank as she came into the room. Patrick and James stood to one side, their expressions seemed more stern than usual. Not wanting to meet Patrick's gaze, Mary kept looking at her Papa. Cora sat down on the settee, and Mary and her sisters gathered around her. Her father stood by the fireplace, his fingers drumming slowly on the marble mantel.

Oddly, Carson was standing stoically to the side of the door. Mary wondered why he was lingering. If he was required somehow, they would ring for him, so why did he need to remain?

"Robert, what is this about?" Cora asked.

"Has Mr. Napier left with the Turk?" James interjected, not allowing Robert to speak.

"Yes, all the guests are gone," Cora replied, frowning at James. "Why?"

"We have family business to discuss. Urgent business," James said evenly, a hint of a smirk crossing his lips as he glanced over at Mary. However, he quickly looked away and he changed his gaze towards his son instead. After several moments, James looked over at his older cousin, the Earl.

"Robert," James said firmly.

Mary frowned. Since when did Cousin James lead family discussions? Of course he loved to bluster on about this and that, but her Papa was still the Earl.

"Mary," Robert said, looking first at James, then back to his eldest daughter. "Did you speak to Mr. Pamuk last night after dinner?"

Everyone turned to look at her. Mary blinked at her father before answering. Her face did not show the confusion mounting within her. Why was she being asked about the Turk?

"Yes, I did," she replied calmly. "I made conversation with Evelyn Napier and Mr. Pamuk, among other guests that joined us last night. We all did."

"But no one monopolised your time the way Mr. Pam-ek did, Mary, isn't that right? And you did not merely make polite conversation, did you?" James asked, his voice almost a sneer.

"I don't know what you're referring to," Mary answered, fixing Cousin James with a cold stare of her own. "I suppose my interpretation of what is considered polite is, not surprisingly, markedly different from yours."

James' eyes narrowed at her rebuke. His lip twitched, revealing his teeth briefly before he regained his composure.

"Well, what is included in the bounds of being polite, Mary?" James asked lightly. "You spent quite a bit of time with the Turk last night. Are you so interested in the goings on in the Balkans? Or was it that he was intrigued by the breathtaking exploits of a young lady such as yourself?"

The confusion Mary was feeling was rapidly replaced by seething anger.

"Though I can't see why this is important, we discussed the first edition _One Thousand and One Arabian Nights_ that he asked me to show him, as well as the paintings in the drawing room," Mary replied with an almost bored tone. "I expected him to make his excuses at any moment and go to engage you in conversation, Cousin James. After all, we all know that your company is infinitely more pleasing than mine."

"A damn book and some paintings? Was that all?" Patrick said bitterly.

"Patrick!" Cora frowned in alarm. "Your language!"

"I apologize, Cousin Cora," Patrick said quickly, keeping his cold stare on Mary the entire time. "But I'm afraid that Mary is not being entirely forthright with us."

Mary's eyes widened. Even Patrick couldn't possibly…

"Mary," Robert said slowly. "Were you with the Turk…in private?"

Mary turned back to her Papa and could not help but open her mouth in surprise. Her mind raced. She sensed a trap, knowing that Patrick would have told at least his own father about seeing Kemal kissing her in the parlour.

"Yes, I was," Mary said evenly, holding her head high. "I didn't want to discuss this for fear it would anger you, Papa, but Mr. Pamuk asked me a question about the Della Francesca in the parlour, and as I was answering him…he kissed me."

Cora gasped in shock. Sybil covered her open mouth and Edith stared at Mary with wide eyes.

"He kissed you," Robert repeated, in a strangely calm voice. "And did you encourage his advances?"

"Robert!" Cora hissed. "How dare you!"

"Answer the question, Mary," Patrick said.

Mary glared at her fiancé, then looked back at her father.

"No, absolutely not," she answered. "His conduct was entirely uninvited, despite how it may have looked to certain people."

"What are you talking about, Mary?" Cora asked.

"Patrick saw us," Mary said, frowning at Patrick. "It would have been obvious to anyone that Mr. Pamuk was taking liberties with me, but Patrick seems to have misinterpreted what he saw."

All eyes turned to Patrick.

"I caught them in the parlour," Patrick said, frowning at Mary. "I stopped them before things could have escalated to God knows what."

"Of course you did," Mary rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"Mary," Cora said.

"Mama, he's just being insufferable!" Mary retorted. "I have no reason to kiss any man when I'm already promised to him. I completely agree that what he saw was shocking. It was shocking to me when it happened. I did not invite such behaviour, nor did I welcome it or appreciate it. If Patrick chooses not to believe that, then so be it. It was a kiss, nothing more, and I will admit that I am grateful to my fiancé for interceding when he did. That's the end of it."

"Do you honestly expect us to believe that nothing else transpired between the two of you, Mary?" James asked coldly.

Mary frowned and looked at Cousin James. She glanced at Patrick, who was staring at her intently. Surely the drunkard did not have the temerity to tell his father _everything_ about last night!

"What else could there have been? I spent the rest of the evening playing bridge with Mama and my sisters, and everyone saw us retire when Mama went up. I didn't speak to Mr. Pamuk or Evelyn for the rest of the evening and I hardly said anything to them this morning at breakfast either," Mary said slowly.

"Mr. Pam-ek was seen going into your bedroom late last night, after everyone retired," James said bluntly. "You tried to hide the truth but I am here to unveil your wicked ways."

"What?" Cora exclaimed. Her hand flew to her chest.

"That's a lie," Mary said tightly.

"Who said this?" Edith asked, glancing from Mary to James.

"Two of the servants saw the heathen creep rather stealthily to Mary's bedroom, and with a small knock, he was let in," James explained, looking at Robert, then Cora.

Robert stood silently, his fingers had stopped drumming and had curled into a fist.

"What do you say to that, Mary?" Robert asked.

Mary glared at her Papa.

"How could you even ask me that?" she growled. "It's a lie, Papa! I would never let any man into my bedroom!"

"There are witnesses," James said smoothly. "Not only did they see Mr. Pamuk be admitted to Mary's bedroom, but they saw him leave later to go back to his own room. And when he left," James paused, glancing about the room at each of the family. "Mary kissed him goodnight."

Cora looked faint. She stared at Mary with wide eyes.

Sybil and Edith were stunned into silence, both of them looking at their sister as though she were a complete stranger to them.

"What sort of deception is this?" Mary asked bitterly. "Who saw all of this happen with such remarkable detail?"

"I did," Patrick declared.

Mary stopped herself from lunging at her fiancé and scratching his eyes out. Barely.

"The servants fetched me when they saw that infidel go to Mary's room. I went to investigate myself. There was no time to rouse the rest of the family. My future wife, the woman I love, was in danger and she needed me, or so I thought."

"And you saw…what they say they saw?" Cora demanded, her voice shaking.

"I saw her kiss him goodnight when he left," Patrick replied. "It was completely dark in the hallway of course, save the faint light from the candle the bastard was holding. They were too…busy with each other…to notice me standing down the hall. But before that, when I arrived at Mary's door, I…heard them inside."

"And?" James asked.

"And I…" Patrick paused, looking down at the floor. He bit his lip and cringed, shutting his eyes.

"It's all right, son," James said sympathetically, placing his hand on his son's shoulder. "You can tell them just as you told me and Cousin Robert. Everyone needs to know, Patrick. You must do the right thing no matter how much it grieves you."

"I heard Mary call out his name in passion!" Patrick raged, his face showing pain and hurt that almost convinced Mary herself that it was genuine.

"Mary!" Cora cried, looking at her daughter in bewilderment.

"Liar!" Mary shrieked loudly at Patrick. "You're lying! You never saw any of that!"

"How could you, Mary?!" Patrick yelled back. "I knew you liked to flirt and I allowed it because it was just harmless fun I thought, but this…we were engaged, Mary! How could you betray me like this?!"

Mary's hands balled into fists. The tears welled in her eyes and fury blazed inside of her. She slowly looked around the room, confused at the strange silence that had fallen over everyone. Her Mama was still staring at her in horror. Sybil was crying. Edith was wide eyed and shocked. Her father was looking at her with a frown, an expression of…disappointment?

"This is all a scheme!" Mary blasted. "None of that happened, and Patrick knows it!"

"Mary," Robert said coldly. "There are witnesses. This isn't some hollow accusation."

She stared at both of her parents for a long moment. Her lip quivered slightly but her anger quelled her fear. Neither had said anything yet to defend her. Neither had questioned anything said by James or Patrick. Mary realized with a shiver of despair that neither of her parents found the tale unbelievable at all.

"Which servants saw all of this?" she asked with cold fury, her voice teetering on the precipice of an outright scream. "Who are these upstanding witnesses who are supporting Loki's myth?" she sneered, waving her hand dismissively at Patrick.

"Louis saw you," Robert said, swallowing under his eldest daughter's glare.

"Patrick's valet?!" Mary cried incredulously, making no effort to quiet her voice. "You take the word of Patrick's lackey over mine?!"

"His story was corroborated by Barrow," Robert answered immediately. "What motive would either of them have to lie? Louis has no vendetta against you. No one in this house does. We arranged for your marriage, Mary. We secured your future with Patrick. And then you go and do this…" Robert shook his head.

"Papa, you're not listening to…" Mary said in frustration.

"This scandal could ruin us Mary!" Robert fired back, silencing her with the anger in his tone. "No one benefits from this. No one is lying. No one is making up fables. There is no motive for anyone to turn against you. What this is, is a spoiled girl who abused our trust in the most deplorable way possible and thought she could get away with it!"

Mary's eyes bulged and she gasped in disbelief. Her eyes flew from her Papa to her Mama, then to her sisters. All of them looked back at her in silence. There was no defence given, no sympathy or assistance offered.

"This cannot be happening," Mary said almost to herself as her eyes moved to Patrick. He looked at her with a strange expression – one of anger mostly, but in his eyes there was something else. Mary's mouth opened in belated realization.

"I wish it weren't happening," James sighed dramatically. "Thank God we found out when we did. The Turk will be going home, but he's bound to spread news of his conquest. Those people are like that. No discretion at all. Our family name is in grave danger."

"He won't say a word, because it never happened," Mary retorted, gathering the last reserves of her courage.

"You, Mary, will leave Downton immediately," James said with eerie calm. "Your engagement to Patrick is over, obviously. Thankfully we have not published the announcement. If the Turk stays quiet, then we shall count ourselves lucky. If he says anything, either now, or in the future, then at least your absence will allow us to distance ourselves from the scandal and hopefully our family name shall survive."

"You can't send me anywhere!" Mary pointed at him. "Not only am I innocent, but you aren't the Earl! You have no power over me, and neither does your spineless whelp of a son!"

"Mary," Robert interrupted.

"Mary, I am the heir to…" James scolded her.

"I don't give a damn who you are!" Mary said, silencing everyone. "You think you run this family, but you don't, not yet. If Patrick wants to break the engagement, fine. I'll be glad to be free of him. But you can't force me to leave my home. No one can!"

"I can, Mary," Robert responded.

Mary turned to her father and it was if she was 10 years old, looking upon him, the Earl of Grantham, larger than life, the most imposing and powerful man she knew.

"Papa?" she asked in a quiet voice.

"Your Grandmamma may be willing to take you in, Mary," Robert said, his eyes sad. "You may find the New World to your taste."

"What?" Mary choked out. She turned away from him. "Mama! You must see this is all a lie! I can't be sent away over this!"

"Your Papa and Cousin James have spoken, Mary," Cora said, tears falling from her eyes. "They control this House. You know that. The terms of the entail are clear. You knew that as well. You can never be Countess now because of…what you've done."

Mary was finally speechless, her defences broken, any further responses melting away. She could have been standing in the middle of the library or on a cliff's edge. She felt utterly and completely alone.

"I'll write to my Mama for you," Cora continued, her voice strained. "We can arrange a crossing once we have her answer."

Mary lifted her chin, struggling to keep the tears at bay.

"No!" Sybil cried, stepping forward.

"Sybil," Robert warned.

"Mary says it didn't happen!" Sybil moved to Mary's side. "I believe her!"

"Sybil!" Cora said in warning.

"But Mama! You can't allow them to send Mary away if she didn't…" Sybil pleaded.

"That's enough, Sybil!" Robert shouted.

Sybil shook from her father's scolding.

"We have made our decision," James said. "And our decision is final. I do hope that you and Sybil learn from this sordid lesson, Edith," James said authoritatively as he looked at Edith and Sybil. "In the end, all we have is each other, and none of us are above this House. Betrayal and disloyalty shall not be tolerated. As the family motto says, "_Pari Passu_." And then though it wasn't necessary to translate, James continued, "_With equal step_."

Mary turned fully to stand facing Cousin James, Patrick standing slightly behind him. Her eyes blazed as she stared at them unblinkingly. James frowned as he looked back at the source of all of his son's despair. His expression was cold, his mind going over all the acts of defiance, all the insults and snide remarks, all the ways in which Mary had refused to accept his power and position.

Mary's eyes filled with rage, her lips pursed in a thin line, her chin raised in superiority. At first, James and Patrick mistook her glare for petulance and shock, but they quickly realized the determination, the resolve and the challenge in her face.

James blinked first.

"Carson," James spat, looking away from Mary. "Escort Lady Mary to her room. She'll be kept there until arrangements are made for her departure. She'll take her meals there and shall not be permitted to go anywhere unescorted. And her sisters shall not visit her without being properly chaperoned either. She'll be permitted the continued use of her lady's maid, however all correspondence sent by the servants shall be closely monitored. We can't have Lady Mary passing messages or being seen in the Village in case any vile rumours should surface. To the outside world, Mary is no longer a part of this House as of now, and it shall soon be made official."

The butler approached Mary with sad eyes and a downcast expression. Mary turned to him and saw his shoulders sag as if a heavy weight had suddenly been thrust upon his back.

"Please, my Lady," Carson said quietly, despite his stoicism, his eyes were noticeably wet.

Mary turned and walked briskly from the library, not meeting anyone's gaze. She did not cry until she was back in her bedroom.

* * *

_**The Midland Hotel, Pearl Suite, Manchester, England, August 1912**_

* * *

"I still can't believe it played out as it did," Matthew said softly, holding Mary tightly against him.

"Sadly, I can," Mary whispered.

"Would you have really gone to America?" he asked.

"No," she shook her head, feeling his warm chest against her cheek. "I was at a loss when Aunt Rosamund wrote to say that rumours had already reached London. But, I couldn't imagine leaving England. Thank God that Granny suggested coming here to stay with my Godfather, although I don't think she expected it would turn out the way it did. Still, she really had no say in the matter. All she could do was order Lord Merton to take me in and provide my stipend. Even she couldn't tell him to take me in and treat me properly. And why would he? No one wants an outcast living under their roof."

"You know I sometimes see him at the hospital or at different events. If you only knew how many times I wanted to punch him in the face," Matthew frowned.

"And you'll do nothing of the sort," Mary smiled, leaning up and kissing him softly. "I can't have you thrown in jail for assault. How would I be able to come visit you when we aren't supposed to know each other?"

"Even still," Matthew said grudgingly. "How he could…"

"I don't want to talk about him, or about any of my family," Mary said, settling back down against his chest. "I'm thankful I was sent here, and I'm thankful that Lord Merton didn't take me into his house, and I'm thankful that none of them care what I do or where I go. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here, with you."

"It hardly seems fair that you should have to settle for me as a consolation prize," Matthew said, his tone somewhere between mirth and sadness.

Mary moved on top of him and kissed him, her hands moving into his hair. Matthew groaned as he felt her breasts rub against his skin, the heat of their bodies pressed together. Mary smiled against his lips as his arousal stirred beneath her.

"It isn't fair at all," she whispered. "Your love is far more valuable than any title, and I do not deserve it, Matthew."

"Mary…" he began.

"Stop talking," Mary smiled, kissing him again and reaching her hand between their bodies. Matthew gasped as she took hold of him. His eyes clouded over and pleasure coursed through him.

"I seem to recall that I won our bet, and now I shall enjoy my prize," she said, licking his ear.

Matthew's hands grasped her hips and Mary groaned before kissing him hard once more.

* * *

_**Downton Abbey, England, February 1911**_

* * *

"I gather you have read your Aunt Rosamund's letter?" Violet asked. She had timed her visit for when James and Patrick had taken a ride together and were not present at the Abbey. It had been easy to gain access to her granddaughter when Carson held the keys.

"Yes," Mary nodded, her voice quiet. "How did everyone find out so quickly?"

"How do you think?" Violet scoffed. "Nothing moves faster than gossip, my dear. And gossip sent with bad intentions moves quickest of all."

"So it's true then?" Mary asked. "Everyone's heard that I took a Turk for a lover."

"No one will admit to it publically, I'm sure," Violet said sadly. "But by spring it will be common knowledge. That is why you are being exiled. If you are not with us when we go to London for the Season in June, and are not present for the Garden Party in August, all will assume you were cast out, and the Crawley name will be saved."

"No one will wonder where I've gone?" Mary frowned.

"Cousin James will take care of that, I am sure," Violet huffed. "But once your story is out there, no one will make inquiries. No one wants to be seen to be interested in such sordid details."

"I don't want to go to America," Mary said firmly, thought her composure was breaking a little.

"Of course you don't!" Violet agreed. "I wouldn't want to go to Heaven if it meant living with your Grandmamma."

"That's not what I meant, Granny," Mary rolled her eyes. "I don't want to leave England. This is my home, whether I am cast out or not."

"I expected that you would feel that way," Violet smiled. "But you can't go to London, Mary. Around every corner, there will be a scornful eye cast in your direction. No, you need to find somewhere that few know of you, and even fewer still would care about your story even if they were to hear about it."

"Where would that be?" Mary asked. "Northumberland?"

Violet smiled knowingly. "Manchester."

"Manchester?" Mary recoiled. "Isn't that worse than America? Modern and industrial, and socialist on top of that?"

"Yes, I know it's a rather dull looking town, but you could make a fresh start there, and it's large enough that there will be opportunities for you. In addition, you already have allies there."

"Godfather!" Mary said.

Violet nodded. "He knows he can't refuse me. It isn't ideal, of course, but all will be well, Mary. All will be well."

* * *

_**The Midland Hotel, Pearl Suite, Manchester, England, August 1912**_

* * *

Mary pulled the blanket across her breasts, running her hand through her tousled hair and smiling as Matthew came back to bed with a silver tray.

"The waiter probably thinks you have a tart in here with the number of times we spend the night in this suite," she teased. "Not to mention ordering room service at all hours."

"I'm afraid you're probably right. Half the staff likely thinks the only way I could ever have such a beautiful woman go upstairs with me is to pay for it," Matthew smiled, kissing her. He ran his hand along her cheek, then through her hair.

"Matthew!" Mary laughed. "Don't touch my hair! You've already made it untidy."

"Good," he said, raising his eyebrows at her before feeding her a strawberry.

"You and your strawberries," Mary laughed. She looked at him playfully before opening her mouth and taking another bite of fruit, deliberately running her tongue across his fingers and receiving the desired response.

* * *

_**Kardomah Café, Market Street, Manchester, England, March 1911**_

* * *

Matthew looked up as the door opened. Expecting to see his Mother, he blinked several times in confusion, then nervously rose to his feet. He put on his most polite smile and tried to still his fidgeting fingers.

"Mary," Matthew nodded his head. "Good afternoon."

"Matthew," Mary smiled in surprise. "Hello."

"A lovely surprise to see you here. Are you meeting someone?" Matthew asked awkwardly.

"Yes," Mary answered, slightly nervous herself. "Your mother actually asked me to meet her here for tea once my shift was over.

"Mother invited you?" Matthew frowned. "That's strange. She told me to meet her here for…oh…" Matthew shook his head.

"What is it?" Mary asked.

"Nothing," Matthew sighed. "Please, have a seat."

Matthew pulled a chair back for her and Mary sat down. Matthew returned to his seat and sat down with a resigned sigh.

Mary looked at him curiously and Matthew struggled to smile bravely at her.

"I apologize, Mary," Matthew stammered. "It appears that my Mother has been presumptuous and you have fallen victim to her daydreaming."

"I don't understand," Mary smirked. "What presumptions?"

"Both of my parents are rather eager to see me…well, settled, with a woman," Matthew said, his face blushing. "It's the unfortunate reality of being an only child, and a son at that. My parents think every beautiful woman they meet is a perfect match for their son."

Mary looked down at her hands and smiled.

"I'm sorry if she's inconvenienced you," Matthew said glumly. "I'll make sure it doesn't happen again. Don't leave on my account. The tea service here is quite lovely. You should enjoy it. I'll gladly pay for it and be on my way."

Matthew reached for his hat, his face a light shade of crimson now.

"Do you really think me beautiful?" Mary asked pointedly, looking straight at him.

"Pardon?" Matthew asked shakily.

"You said that your parents think every beautiful woman they meet is a perfect match for you. So, do you think me beautiful, or do you think that only your parents see me that way?" Mary asked.

Matthew swallowed, completely enraptured by her playful dark brown eyes and the slight curl to her lips.

"Certainly I do find you beautiful, Mary," Matthew replied, his face showing the unmistakable honesty of his words. "Very much so."

"Thank you, Matthew," Mary smiled, an entirely pleased expression crossing her face. "Now, it seems to me that we both are scheduled to have tea this afternoon, and the fact that Mrs. Crawley is not here should not deter us, should it?"

Matthew's eyes widened. "No! That is, no, it shouldn't."

"Unless of course, you have somewhere more important to be?" Mary teased.

"No!" Matthew almost shouted, before he composed himself. Mary held back a chuckle. "I would very much enjoy having tea with you, Mary."

Mary looked down at her hands again, a blush coming to her cheeks.

Matthew called for the waiter.

"We'll take tea please," Matthew said politely. "Earl Grey for me, and, I'm sorry, would Darjeeling be acceptable, Mary?" he asked her.

Mary smiled. "Yes, Matthew, that would be splendid."

"Darjeeling for the Lady, please," Matthew told the waiter. "We'll also have sandwiches and scones, clotted cream and strawberry jam, please. And if you have any fresh strawberries, I wouldn't mind a bowl, as well."

"Superb choice, sir," the waiter nodded and walked away.

"Fresh strawberries with tea?" Mary asked.

"I know it's quite unheard of," Matthew chuckled. "I have an affinity for strawberries. Something about the sweetness of them, I suppose. Jam is usually not enough."

"Interesting," Mary commented, smiling at him. "Do you have them with anything in particular?"

"Sometimes with the cream," Matthew answered. "But I rather prefer them naked," he said, smiling to himself. His eyes widened as he realized what he said aloud. "That is, I prefer them without any accompaniment," he recovered.

"I rather enjoy them with chocolate myself," Mary said easily, smiling at his choice of words. She was flirting! She was flirting with Matthew! Somehow she expected that their banter would make her feel uncomfortable or that some part of her would want to restrain herself, to not travel down a road that he seemed more than willing to go. However, no censure or warning came to her.

"Strawberries with chocolate," Matthew repeated. "That seems as though it would be very sweet, Mary," he said.

"Sinfully so, Matthew," Mary answered. "But if you don't think you can handle it, then perhaps you shouldn't try."

"I always enjoy a challenge," Matthew said, fixing his blue eyes upon her. "I'm not afraid of indulging in something sweet from time to time. Though I wouldn't dare attempt it without proper supervision."

Their tea was served and they both paused to collect themselves as their fine china cups were filled. Mary sipped the hot liquid, a delicious warmth washing over her. She lifted her eyes and met Matthew's stare once again. Those blue eyes. Something about them was disarming and trustworthy. Perhaps it was the fact he was clearly more nervous and awkward than she was. Perhaps it was that she had been living alone in this strange city for almost two months now and it was only Matthew and his family that had shown her any kindness. Perhaps it was that she was tired of feeling angry all the time, tired of being suspicious of everyone, tired of feeling as though everyone around her had an ulterior motive.

"Maybe I can interest you in showing me this delicacy sometime?" Matthew asked, his voice adoringly shaky and his blue eyes revealing a hopefulness that was cute and unlike any glance Mary had ever seen from a man.

"Maybe you will," Mary smiled back, sipping her tea.

* * *

_**The Midland Hotel, Pearl Suite, Manchester, England, August 1912**_

* * *

Matthew blinked, opening his eyes wearily as he heard an insistent knock at the door. He roused himself to wake. He kissed Mary's forehead, hugging her briefly, smiling as he felt her soft breasts against his chest and her hand along his stomach. He pulled away and got out of bed, slipping on his robe as he stumbled out of the bedroom, across the salon, and into the foyer.

"Mr. Crawley," a valet nodded to him once he opened the door. "Your picnic basket is ready, sir."

Matthew blinked several times before his brain properly deciphered what the valet was saying. "Oh, right. What time is it?"

"It's almost noon, sir," the valet replied.

"Thank you. If you could have the basket brought to the concierge desk in about an hour, we'll be leaving then. We'll also need a taxi," Matthew said.

"Yes, Mr. Crawley," the valet acknowledged, then left to carry out his instructions.

Matthew closed the door and wandered back to the bedroom, yawning before sliding back under the covers and pulling Mary's naked body back towards him.

"What was that all about?" Mary asked sleepily.

"It was one of the valets," Matthew said, smiling lazily. "I forgot that I arranged a surprise for you."

"Another one?" Mary smiled, kissing his cheek before settling back into the crook of his shoulder. "I'm afraid I'm quite worn out from all of your surprises from last night."

"Well this shall rejuvenate you, darling," Matthew smiled, caressing her bare back. "I've had them prepare a picnic lunch for us and we can head over to park. I know this secluded spot that is perfect for our purposes."

"Insatiable man," Mary laughed, running her fingers along his chest. "That does sound lovely. Are we returning here for dinner? If so, I'll need to go back home and change."

"No," Matthew said. "Mother and Papa will be back from the country later today, so I expect we'll have dinner with them, if that's all right."

"Of course it is," Mary smiled, her eyes still closed. "I'll have had enough of you by then."

"I beg to disagree," Matthew smiled. "But we can put that statement to the test when I take you home afterward."

"You need to take a bath," Mary smiled, kissing him softly.

"You're right," Matthew said. "Care to wash my back?"

Mary opened her eyes and looked at the wicked grin on his face. "Only if you wash mine," she said, kissing him softly.

"Of course," Matthew replied. He sat up and before Mary could do the same, he picked her up in his arms and carried her out of bed. Mary laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck. She rolled her eyes at him as his hand ghosted from her legs to slap playfully at her bottom.

"I am prepared to give you a quite thorough cleaning, my darling," he said, kissing her as he walked into the bathroom.


	7. Chapter 7

_**St. Peter's Square, Manchester, England, August 1912**_

* * *

Mary waited patiently outside the store. Matthew was standing by the kerb, flagging down a taxi for them. She watched him from under the awning, admiring his broad shoulders and firm back, his blond hair almost as styled as hers, hidden beneath a distinguished hat. If they were a normal couple, they would have waited in the lobby of the Midland for a doorman to both fetch their taxi and call them over. But Matthew knew that Mary required secrecy, and so while he retuned the picnic basket to the concierge, she had left the hotel without him to wait in a more crowded area of the bustling public square. It was easier for Matthew to call a taxi from here, and for Mary to stay out of sight. The hotel staff was already becoming quite familiar with seeing Mr. Crawley and his dark haired female friend. It was wiser to lessen the number of times that they were seen coming and going from the place together. However, just because it was wise to be more discrete did not make things any easier.

Mary sighed as Matthew successfully caught a taxi's attention and waited for it to approach. How many men would be so understanding? How many men would barely question when a woman said that yes, she did want to be with him, but no, they could not be public about their relationship? How many men would be so steadfast, so loyal, so accommodating? Sometimes she looked at Matthew and wondered nervously if he felt it was all worth it or not, if _she _was worth all of the effort?

The taxi stopped at the kerb and Matthew looked back at her. He quirked his eyebrows playfully and nodded his head towards the door of the car. Mary smirked to herself as she walked briskly into the sunshine, crossed the sidewalk and disappeared into the taxi. Instructions were given to the driver and they were soon on their way, Matthew's hand moving carefully over and taking hold of hers, out of sight of the driver. They each turned away and looked out the window on their respective sides of the taxi, their gloved hands still linked. These little gestures of his were common now, and Mary smiled to herself at their secret touch, the understanding between them that went unspoken. Perhaps Matthew shouldn't go to so much trouble for her, she thought, but she knew for certain that _he_ was entirely worth every effort she could make.

"That was a lovely picnic," Mary said nonchalantly, still keeping her gaze away from him.

"The weather was perfect," Matthew agreed. "I'm just sorry we had to leave the park so soon."

Mary squeezed his hand in understanding. Even though they were not looking at each other, she knew that disappointment was showing on Matthew's face. They were no longer in their suite at the hotel, or in their private grove at the park. They were back in public and under the strict rules of formal decorum. It was understandable that Matthew was reluctant to leave the park. When he had finally declared they needed to get back to the hotel and on home, she was sitting against his chest and playing idly with his hair.

Matthew remained quiet as the taxi travelled down the familiar path to the Crawley home. It was rather endearing how consistent he was. Anything that kept them apart annoyed him, and though his patience was remarkable in some ways, in others it was humorously short.

"I'm so relieved that the hot spell has abated," Mary continued. "The sunshine is nice, but I could do without as much heat."

"It's not so bad," Matthew said quietly.

"Oh?" Mary asked, surprised by his response.

"I've gotten used to it," he replied. "I've become used to feeling quite heated in your presence."

Mary dared to look at him then. She rolled her eyes playfully and grinned. He was far from poetic in his delivery of romantic lines, but that only made him more irresistible to her. Mary was used to the polished and immaculately mannered suitors of her youth. They all had something to hide and in the end were a disappointment to her. Since her arrival in Manchester, she was becoming more and more comfortable with the attractiveness of awkward and genuine.

"I still can't believe that your mother was able to convince your father to go to the country to see her cousins," Mary smiled. "He was probably short of breath the moment he left the Manchester city limits."

Matthew smirked and his hand moved from hers to gently caress her knee. Mary glared at him, then checked to make sure the driver was still oblivious to them. When she saw he was still focused on the road, she reached out and squeezed Matthew's thigh before drawing her hand back. The look on his face made her smile triumphantly.

"I'm sure he was a delight," Matthew chuckled. "Mother does like a bit of authority, and one thing about Crawley men, we do seem to capitulate to our women rather easily."

Mary smirked and shared a knowing glance with him. He turned to look at the driver. Mary's pulse jumped a bit. She could see the debate inside of him. Was he actually thinking of stealing a kiss while the driver was looking away from them?

Matthew was about to turn back to her when something caught his attention. He looked out the window on her side of the car and a beaming smile crept across his face.

"Darling," Mary whispered. "What is it?"

"My apologies, Mary," Matthew said as he looked back at her with a grin. "I just noticed our bench, and I was reliving a rather pleasant memory."

"But, it's not sunset," Mary teased, raising her eyebrow and biting her lower lip as she smirked at him.

"All of our kisses are at sunset in my mind," Matthew teased back.

Mary pushed her hair behind her ear and smiled as she remembered that moment. Had it really been over a year already since their first kiss?

"It's a wonder that I let you kiss me," she smiled. "Considering that everything about our date was far from romantic."

"Well, I was determined to salvage something of the evening," Matthew chuckled. "All of my previous efforts to impress you had gone awry."

"That's not true," Mary scolded him. "I was very impressed by you at the Café."

"That wasn't technically part of our date yet," Matthew noted. "Which is probably why, it was a much larger success as I wasn't trying so much during tea. I learned to my dismay that I'm not as suave as I once thought."

"That is putting it mildly," Mary smiled as she allowed him to take her hand again.

* * *

_**Fletcher Moss Botanical Garden, Manchester, England, April 1911**_

* * *

"The entrance to the garden is magnificent," Matthew said enthusiastically. "A striking example of Neo-Norman architecture from the 12th century, note its stone arched gate topped with an eagle effigy."

Mary's eyes were bright and playful as she listened to him. She was amused at his eager tone of voice and pride in his hometown surroundings. In London during her Season she had met men who loved the sound of their own voices, but that was not the case with Matthew. Everything that evening had been directed towards her, as though he were trying to keep her interested by his enthusiasm alone. And it was becoming contagious.

She had worried about whether to accept his invitation to luncheon or not. They had a lovely time at tea, talking and laughing so easily. He seemed so interested in her opinions, asking her about her role at the hospital and what she thought of different doctors and staff that he knew. She did not offer much explanation about her past, and he did not pry, content to go at her pace and allow the conversation to go where it would. There had been very few silent pauses between them all afternoon.

She reasoned that having luncheon with Matthew was not particularly significant. The food had been tasty and the conversation once again enjoyable, but when he nervously asked her what her plans were for the rest of the day, she realized he had put far more thought into their appointment than simply eating. She weighed the options of returning to Lady Philomena's house and sitting it the attic until dinner or continuing to enjoy Matthew's company. It was a startlingly easy choice to make.

After luncheon Matthew took her to the Manchester Art Gallery. The Gallery visit led to dinner, and dinner had now turned into this early evening walk. She was not afraid that she would run into Lord Merton or anyone who would find it curious to see her walking with a man unchaperoned. The entire day spent with Matthew had made her forget about the shackles of her former life that had been narrow and judgmental, polite manners and yet nasty assumptions; a world that had cast her out without hesitation. She found that she could banter with Matthew, even tease and challenge him, and he would not back down, or take anything personally. Although he barely knew how to hold his knife like a gentleman, he was so vivacious, and she couldn't help but play along.

"The ancient stone gate," Matthew continued gesturing to the moss covered structure, "was once a part of a hotel that was demolished when I was a boy. The garden's proprietor rescued it and it's been here ever since, ancient and modern times commingled together."

The ground was like wilderness in comparison to the manicured lawns of Downton Abbey. But the wildflowers were charming and the setting was appealing if not unusual. Such a strange place, this large park in the middle of the city.

"Here," Matthew said gallantly. "Take my hand."

Mary blushed and looked away, her gloved hand sliding into his lightly. There was something so honest about Matthew. She could think of any number of men who, if they ordered her to take their hand, she would have slapped them in reply. But Matthew seemed so unassuming.

"I know a shortcut," Matthew said confidently and he led her through a small clearing.

Mary held the hem of her dress as they passed by what she presumed was a blackberry bush without any fruit. The lower branches brushed against their legs. This was quite the adventure, she thought wryly to herself. Just two months ago she would be taking tea with her Mama and Granny or putting Diamond through his paces in the fields. Now she was traipsing through brush and not minding it at all.

She looked about the garden and saw many other people enjoying the public space. It didn't seem possible to be escaping the bustle of the Manchester streets with only a few steps into this green space. She was pleasantly surprised by this city with each new discovery, her initial prejudice and assumption that this was just some industrial backwater fading away. When they reached the rock garden, she saw flowers and plants that she did not recognize, and she found she was rather looking forward to Matthew explaining them to her. She had to shake her head and wonder at her response to this man. He was making her forget herself, which given her recent past, was a quite welcome occurrence.

"My father calls this location the new Hanging Gardens, and Manchester the new Babylon," Matthew said with a boyish grin. "He can be a bit of a dreamer, as you may have noticed."

"Yes," she said lightly. "Are you a dreamer, Matthew? Or are you more practical?"

"I'll say I'm more of a dreamer, if that's one of my father's qualities that you find endearing," Matthew chuckled. "Although I will admit that I am forced to be more of a pragmatist by trade. Since we're outside of the office and the hospital, it doesn't seem so wrong to get swept away a little bit, does it?"

"No. No, it doesn't," Mary replied. Even when Matthew said something ridiculous, it sounded fun and playful. God, what was happening to her?

Matthew let go of her hand as they reached a makeshift boardwalk covering a shallow stream. Mary frowned at the wood planks that were creating a makeshift boardwalk.

"You first," he said with a chivalrous bow. "I want to show you the gingko tree on the other side. I always have picnics with my parents there."

Mary looked with uncertainly at the wet, muddy, well worn boards. Lady Mary Crawley setting foot in mud. This was a different world she had landed in, clearly. She took comfort in the knowledge that this was a well-travelled path, somewhere Matthew's parents evidently frequently crossed. Narrowing her eyes, she took the few steps across quickly, holding her breath for fear she would have an embarrassing tumble. However, she crossed without incident and stepped on to the solid grass covered ground on the other side. Turning around triumphantly, Mary turned back to Matthew. His gaze was fixed upon her, a boyish grin across his lips. She tried to look away demurely. His eyes were unlike any she had ever seen before, and she was a Lady – she had seen plenty of men in her time.

Blushing slightly at how he seemed to be captivated and almost staring at her, Mary realized belatedly that he wasn't paying attention to where he was going. She opened her mouth to warn him to be careful, but before she could voice her alert, Matthew lost his footing and tripped into the shallow creek with a surprised grunt.

"Matthew!" Mary called, stepping back across the path to make sure he was all right. As she came to him, she slipped on the muddy boards and fell on top of him, the breath flying from his lungs as his hands came up to break her fall.

"Mary," Matthew whispered, his eyes wide and his lips parted. She was sitting atop him now, her one hand on her hat and her other on his shoulder. She thought vaguely that she had been spared soaking her entire dress as only the hem had hit the stream thanks to Matthew being under her. She swallowed as she stared into his eyes, thoughts of sitting astride him in a running stream seeming quite unimportant suddenly.

"I'm sorry, Mary," Matthew said softly, unable to tear his eyes away from hers. "That was rather reckless of me."

"You're not the only one behaving badly, apparently," she whispered back, unsure as to what to do next.

Matthew cleared his throat. "Go ahead and stand up. I'll help you to the other side and we can dry off."

Mary rose as gracefully as she could manage, which only caused her to blush more fiercely as it involved standing above Matthew. He scrambled to his feet, his suit soaked through. He guided her to the shore with a hand at her back. She did not know whether she was shivering from the water or from his touch.

Matthew hung his wet jacket on a branch and motioned Mary to a bench in the sun for them to dry off.

"I must say that I have not been a very impressive date thus far," Matthew shook his head as he took a seat beside her. His eyes then went wide as he realized he was speaking out loud. He glanced at Mary nervously. She looked back at him, studying his expression.

"Oh, I don't know," she smiled. "It's certainly been one of my more memorable dates."

"I assume you speak in the form of mockery," Matthew said carefully.

"You should have more faith," Mary smirked. Her heart fluttered the same way it had when they flirted in the Café just days ago.

"Need I remind you that I just made an absolute spectacle of myself?" Matthew said, looking pointedly at her. "I expect that will live in your memory for months, as fresh as the day it happened."

"Oh, Matthew," Mary laughed genuinely. "You'll just have to replace that with a happier memory, won't you? Aren't you Mancs supposed to be resilient? Always up for a challenge?"

"Always, Mary," Matthew smirked. "But if I'm to replace the memory of my clumsiness, then we should see more of each other."

She looked away as a blush creeped across her face. Perhaps Matthew Crawley was more suave than he was letting on.

He eventually did show her the gingko tree and the small grove where his family took picnics. The view was majestic, with the entire park spread out before them, as though the entire panorama of nature was on show just for them. After some more delightful conversation, he offered to escort her out of the park with the intention of getting her a taxi to take her home. Their clothes had dried in the sun, although she suspected Matthew was much more uncomfortable than she was. He kept scratching his arms, probably because he could not fully dry himself without removing his shirt. Mary swallowed slightly at the visual image that came to her mind. She had a dull ache along her calves, but nothing overly troublesome.

Their fall in the stream aside, the day's outing had been quite fun. They had talked, laughed and shared stories, and Mary did not take these simple pleasures for granted anymore.

Before they reached the park entrance, Matthew stopped and turned to her. "Can I entice you to sit and watch the sunset?" he offered, his voice tentative. He pointed to a bench overlooking the park with the sun clearly lower on the horizon.

"Do you like watching the sunset? I used to watch it with my sisters just before dinner," Mary said pleasantly. She sat down and as Matthew took the spot next to her, she wondered what her Granny would say if she could see her now – sitting on a bench in Manchester with a handsome man with no title and who worked as a lawyer for a living.

"I do," Matthew said nostalgically. "It is my favourite time of day, when colours are their brightest, and yet there is something out there seemingly as the sun sets past the horizon. It's like a puzzle to be solved."

Mary was quiet as she discreetly rubbed her shoe against her leg, both enraptured by his words and at the satisfaction of scratching the itch.

"Did you know in English, points of the compass are derived from sunrise and sunset? Orient and Occident are from Latin meaning, sunrise and sunset," Matthew continued.

"I believe I was taught that at some point when I was younger," Mary replied. "Have you seen Claude Monet's paintings of a sunset?"

"Yes, I have," Matthew said fondly. "Although I prefer Turner, and not just because he is British."

Mary smiled at his strong opinion as she found herself staring into his eager expression, his blue eyes and that piece of blond hair perpetually falling on his forehead. She looked away to avoid gazing at him too much. She caught the sun on the horizon and smiled. Such a simple thing, taking the time to watch the sunset, and yet for Mary it was as though she was being granted a moment of peace – where she did not have to think of who she was, what had happened to her, and what her future held. She could just sit and watch the sunset and enjoy some lovely company.

"Today was quite splendid, after all," she said idly.

"Today is quite splendid, yes," Matthew replied.

She turned her head towards him.

"Have you forgotten your spill then?" she teased.

"No, I haven't forgotten," Matthew shook his head. "It's just that today has been so full of memories that I find I can leave that one alone."

"Truly?" Mary asked, her voice becoming quiet. "And what would you call the best one then?"

"I have several," Matthew answered. He licked his lips and swallowed nervously and Mary's eyes widened, unable to look away from his tongue darting across his lips.

"Have you found any pleasant memories, Mary?" he asked softly.

Mary nodded her head. "I must admit that this current moment is growing quite memorable."

Matthew leaned forward. Mary closed her eyes. He hesitated. She held her breath. His lips bushed against her softly and carefully, as though he were afraid of doing it wrong, or being rejected or both. He held the kiss for a moment, then pulled back. Mary opened her eyes.

"I hope I haven't ruined everything," Matthew whispered.

Mary blushed as she realized how inappropriate it was to be kissing a gentleman in a public park. She dropped her gaze and shook her head.

"No," she smiled, unable to look up at him. "The opposite, in fact."

Matthew looked away, smiling widely. He scratched his arm again, then frowned as he pulled the cuff of his shirt back from his wrist. He leaned back on the bench and sighed.

"I hope that that you deem that last moment a happy one, because I'm afraid I have something else to apologize for," Matthew said with a sheepish smile.

"Oh?" Mary inquired, her fingers nervously fiddling with her necklace.

"The shortcut that I took you through earlier, on our way to the crossing and the gingko tree. It seems to have led us through some poison ivy," he said apologetically.

Mary's eyes widened in shock. Poison ivy? She shuddered to think of the rash that must now be spreading across her delicate skin.

"I'm so sorry, Mary," Matthew said. "I should have just stayed on the path and gone the long way around. I'm not usually this absent minded, or clumsy, or awkward, or…"

"It's all right, Matthew," Mary smiled, touching his hand. "I think enough went right today to convince me that you're not a lost cause, for now."

He smiled in relief.

"And I believe I know a doctor who can deal with our condition," she smiled. "Shall we go and see him?"

"Yes," Matthew nodded in surprise. "I'll get us a taxi."

* * *

_**Home of Reginald and Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, August 1912**_

* * *

"Master Matthew, Lady Mary," Davis nodded as they entered the foyer.

"Davis," Matthew smiled and nodded at the family butler. "Lady Mary will be joining us for dinner. I expect that Mother already informed you?"

"She did, sir," Davis nodded. "Mrs. Crawley told me to send you through to the salon when you arrived. She's expecting both of you."

"Right, then," Matthew said pleasantly. "Thank you, Davis."

"Sir, Lady Mary," Davis nodded.

Mary frowned slightly as she followed Matthew across the foyer towards the salon. Unlike the stoic demeanour of her beloved Carson, Davis always seemed to be jovial and pleasant – for a butler anyway. His clipped tone made his seem edgy, but Matthew appeared not to have noticed it.

It was also odd that they were going to meet Isobel in the salon. The salon was used for entertaining guests or having drinks after dinner. Matthew's parents were rarely there unless they had guests over to the house. Even Mary did not set foot there, usually just going through to the library or dining room with Matthew whenever she was over.

When they reached the small but tastefully furnished room, Mary and Matthew stopped short. To their surprise, Isobel was not alone. Mary dropped her hand from Matthew's grasp and stood slightly behind him.

"Ah, Matthew," Isobel smiled politely. "Dr. Boyd was just leaving."

"Matthew, good to see you again," the doctor smiled, rising from his chair.

"Thank you for coming, Albert," Isobel nodded to him.

"No trouble at all, Isobel. I'll see myself out. I'll speak to you tomorrow," Dr. Boyd replied, then nodded to Matthew and left.

Mary was thankful that Isobel had not called attention her presence and that Dr. Boyd had apparently not paid her much heed as he passed them on his way out.

"Was Dr. Boyd here to see Father?" Matthew asked offhandedly as he crossed the room and sat down. He picked up a book off the side table and leafed through it idly.

Mary took a seat on the chair next to Matthew's. She looked over at Isobel. Matthew's mother was sitting up rigidly in her chair, her hands were clasped together in her lap.

"Yes," Isobel replied plainly, watching Matthew read his book. "Dr. Boyd was here to see your Father."

"He's upstairs I expect. Resting? Was it a long journey back from the country?" Matthew asked, still looking through the book.

"No, we left early and were able to get home this morning. We've been home for most of the day, actually," Isobel said evenly.

Mary eyed both of them warily. Matthew was flipping pages with a bored expression. Isobel was watching him intently.

"Matthew, put away the book," Mary said kindly. "Your mother asked us to come to the salon. She must have something important to tell us."

Isobel glanced over at Mary and thanked her with her eyes. Mary only nodded in acknowledgment.

"I'm sorry, Mother," Matthew said quickly, putting the book back on the table. "I must be getting hungry. I'm forgetting my manners. Did you have something you needed to tell us?"

"Yes," Isobel nodded. "I'm glad you came back for dinner. I'm sorry if it's interrupted your weekend."

"Not at all," Mary answered with a smile. "I was getting a bit tired of your son anyway."

Matthew chuckled and shook his head at her joke.

Isobel looked down at her hands, her face neutral.

Mary's pulse sped up slightly.

"There's something you must know, and I felt it imperative to tell you immediately once you arrived. I didn't want to wait for dinner," Isobel continued.

"That sounds serious," Matthew answered, looking over at Mary with a smirk, then frowning as he realized that Mary was not sharing his bemusement. She was looking at Isobel with concern.

"It's about Dr. Crawley, isn't it?" Mary asked quietly.

Isobel closed her eyes and exhaled. She could only nod slightly while at the same time her head shook back and forth.

"What about Father?" Matthew frowned, looking from Mary back to Isobel. "Mother? Have you received word from Murray regarding the entail? Has the Earl summoned him formally?"

"No," Isobel said calmly, opening her eyes and looking at her son once more. "It has nothing to do with that business at all."

Mary's throat felt dry.

"Your father is sick, Matthew," Isobel declared, looking at him seriously. "He has been ill for some time now, but he didn't want to burden you with it, either of you," she said, glancing over at Mary.

"Sick?" Matthew frowned. "Papa is never sick. What is it? How long before he recovers?"

"Matthew," Isobel closed her eyes again, her voice wavering. When she opened them again, they appeared tired and vacant. "It's cancer."

Mary gasped and her hand flew up to cover her mouth.

Matthew's eyes widened in shock. He stared blankly for a long moment.

"It's gotten into his lungs," Isobel said slowly. "At first it was mostly fatigue and lack of energy. Things that could be explained away and were not as noticeable. Recently it's gotten much worse, shortness of breath, disorientation, intense bouts of coughing. The trip to my cousin's wasn't a family visit. We were meeting with some of your father's old colleagues from school, discussing treatment options. We returned this morning and he could barely make it in the door without gasping for air. We put him to bed and he's been there all day. That's when I called Albert to come see him."

Mary blinked, remembering now where she had seen Dr. Boyd before. He was the head of oncology at the hospital.

"But those symptoms could mean anything, Mother!" Matthew snapped. "He may just need to slow down a bit. Perhaps he's just been working too hard, or it's something in the air, something he breathed in, something…"

"Something he smoked, Matthew," Isobel said sadly.

Matthew's mouth hung open. Mary closed her eyes.

"How long have you known?" Matthew asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Mary's eyes went to him. He looked at Isobel, and Mary cringed as he appeared so childlike to her now, his eyes pleading, his lips, that had given her such pleasure just hours ago now quivering in fear.

"He suspected something last Fall," Isobel said. "At first we thought it was just stress or not getting enough rest, perhaps even the flu with the change in the season. But he never really got better. It only got worse. By Christmas, he knew it was more serious, but he didn't want to tell you. We weren't completely sure, and he didn't want either of you to worry about him."

Matthew turned to Mary, a silent exchange passing between them through their eyes. Christmas of last year. Christmas 1911. She had always thought of her first Christmas with Matthew's family as a joyous occasion. But Matthew's parents were guarding his father's secret so that she and Matthew could enjoy themselves. She tasted bitterness in her mouth and her hands seemed to be shaking.

"He'll be angry with me for telling you now," Isobel sighed. "But I wanted both of you to know. Albert doesn't think he has much time left, Matthew. I'm certain your father knows that as well. If he had his way, he would continue this scheme and leave us silently in the night, but I know you wouldn't want that and I know it's not right; not anymore. So I'm telling you now, both of you."

Mary and Matthew looked at Isobel. They were at a loss to say anything.

"But," Matthew said, grasping for something, anything to change what his mother had revealed.

"Your father is dying, Matthew," Isobel said, her voice small and weak. "There's not much that can be done. He has a blockage in his lungs and fluid is building up behind it. Within a week or so, he'll have pneumonia. And shortly after that…"

Isobel's eyes were sad and dark as she looked from her son to Mary and back to Matthew. Mary never saw Isobel as old and frail, even though she was as old as her Granny. She was a force, showing more energy than nurses half her age. As Mary looked at her now, she saw her as a wife and mother, and the strength that Mary admired so much seemed to be draining out of her.

"Shortly after that, he'll be gone," Isobel finished and looked down at her lap.

Mary got up from her chair and crossed the gap to Matthew. She placed her hand on his shoulder. His hand flew up immediately and covered hers, his grip hard and firm. He stared at the ground, his brow creased and his breathing growing quicker.

"I have Mrs. Bird making a soup for him," Isobel said, rising to her feet. "I'm going to go up and see him and tell him what I've done. After a few minutes, I want you to go up and see him, Matthew. He'll have much to say to you, now that you know the truth. I'll send Mary up shortly after you've had time to talk to your father. He'll want to speak to you as well, Mary."

"Mother," Matthew choked out. He could not lift his eyes from the floor.

"We'll talk later, Matthew," Isobel said kindly. "I need to go see your father. And you need to prepare yourself to talk to him as well."

Isobel left the room. Matthew's eyes remained fixed on the floor. Mary felt his body begin to shake. She knelt down beside him, her arm going across his back and her hand lightly touching his cheek as she turned him to face her.

"Darling, I'm so sorry," Mary sighed, tears beginning to form in her eyes.

Matthew pulled her into his arms, clutching her desperately. She came to him immediately, sitting on his lap. She held his head against her shoulder and ran her hands through his hair and along his back soothingly.

"Mary, I…how can…" he gasped, unable to speak any further words.

"It's all right," Mary said, stroking her hand up and down his back. "You don't need to pretend with me, Matthew."

Matthew unleashed a painful sob into her shoulder. He pulled her tighter against him and she held him closer.

"Mary," he wailed, his tears running down his cheeks and falling on to her blouse.

His sobs became groans, and as he held her, he shut his eyes tight and cried and cried.

"I'm here, Matthew," Mary repeated softly as his body quaked against her. Her own tears fell as she lowered her lips and kissed the top of his head.

"I'm here."

* * *

_**Fletcher Moss Botanical Garden, Manchester, England August 1911**_

* * *

"There is no stigma or shame for anyone to ask us for help now, as physicians can now freely provide their services by the merciful strokes of great men such as Lloyd George," Dr. Crawley said to Mary as they walked towards the gardens. They had left the hospital together and were to be joined soon by Isobel and Matthew for a family picnic.

"I'm afraid I still don't understand the National Insurance Act. I was raised as a Conservative," Mary said evenly. She just couldn't comprehend this social mania that seemed to be everywhere in Manchester, and especially in the hospital. It seemed a very foreign concept to her, and she knew her family had vehemently objected to it.

"You understand it quite well, I'm sure, Mary," Dr. Crawley laughed. "But it's the idea of someone getting something without paying full price for it that gives you consternation."

"That's true," Mary smirked.

"Well, you're not only one to feel that way, and certainly not the only aristocrat to hold that view either," Dr. Crawley said easily.

"Life is filled with messy contradictions," Dr. Crawley continued as he played with his unlit cigar. "Politics most of all. I'm not a Royalist but I was impressed with the tact that King George has for his father's legacy, as King Edward approved of these measures. People should about think of that before they attack Lloyd George. It wasn't a radical idea dreamed up by the liberals."

Mary had never heard this before, but it did make sense. Such a controversial act would need the approval of the King, not just the Chancellor or Prime Minister.

"There is genuine good in helping all people and that is what his measure is trying to ensure," Dr. Crawley said. "It has been a rough start, both for the government and the Act itself, but people need access to medicine and health care. As a doctor, naturally I am of the inclination to support such laws from the government that help confirm what, to me, is a right that all people should have."

"I'm not surprised," Mary smiled. She had been taught that great families like her own were to provide for servants, tenants and labourers; certainly not the government. She was not at all shocked that Dr. Crawley fiercely supported the Act, or the concept of everyone in England having a right to health care.

"I know you want to help everyone," she said kindly.

Dr. Crawley chuckled, "Chalk it up to another of my faults. I have legions of them."

Mary shook her head at this dry humor.

"People are stubborn Mary. They don't like change," he said as they reached the chosen spot for the picnic under the famed ginkgo tree that Matthew had taken her to some months before. Mary was amused that Dr. Crawley had entered the garden through the west gate, therefore avoiding his son's so-called shortcut. Matthew had never taken her through that route since their first date, in fact.

"But in my experience," Dr. Crawley continued, "Nobody has more pride than the poor. I've seen them in my hospital, without a penny to their name and yet they still insist on being billed for their medical treatment. This new Act will allow them dignity from begging and salvation from debt. After all, a Duchess and a dockworker can both get pneumonia can they not?"

Mary felt a shiver at this conclusion. She had never had to think about how medicine and health care was paid for. Whenever they needed him, Dr. Clarkson came to the house to see them, or they went into the Village. The cost of the service was never in her thoughts. Now though, because of her exile, she was forced to confront the issue of where her money came from and how it would be spent. There was no one to rely upon anymore, except herself. The money that her Mama had given her when she was banished from Downton Abbey had lasted for most of her first year in Manchester, and her Granny was providing for her as well. Not having to pay for living with Lady Philomena was helpful, but Mary was still doing things like buying groceries and paying for her lunch in the hospital commissary, basic tasks that she never had to contemplate before. Even her clothing had become more utilitarian and practical, though that was partly due to the lack of high fashion selections in Manchester and Matthew's continued habit of buying her dresses and other gifts.

"Well," Dr. Crawley said as he cut his cigar promptly lit it. "It is a fine day today," he glanced about the gardens with relish at the surroundings. "On the seventh day, God created Manchester," he finished with admiration, "My Heaven on Earth."

Mary could only smile at his warmth for their surroundings. However, before she could speak, she saw Matthew and his mother approaching. He carried a large picnic basket on one arm and a large blanket under the other. Isobel was carrying a basket of her own, and Mary smiled, knowing the exact contents.

"Hello there," Dr. Crawley said warmly as his family gathered around. Mary felt her smile grow as she watched them interact. The three of them looked so right together, the picture of a proper family, a loving one. She blushed when Matthew's gaze turned from his parents and settled upon her.

Dr. Crawley took the basket and blanket from Matthew, despite his son's objections. He then offered his free arm to Isobel and they proceeded to set up for the picnic.

Matthew doffed his hat and greeted Mary with a shy smile.

"Hello," he said casually. "I'm so glad you're here."

"You can thank your parents once again," she said. "Isobel cajoled me into coming for this birthday celebration."

"Well, you do mean a lot to them," Matthew smiled. "They like to think of you as a success story for how much you've learned since you've arrived here." He paused briefly before he spoke again, in a quieter tone. "And you mean a great deal to me, also. A very great deal."

"I should have known that you would have the same birthday as your Father as you two are so very much alike," Mary said slightly changing the subject as she was still uncomfortable accepting so much praise she felt she didn't deserve.

Matthew laughed at this comment. "I believe I'm supposed to offer you such charming flattery, not the other way around."

"Mary, Matthew, come join us, won't you?" Dr. Crawley called, interrupting their banter.

"Matthew, my boy, we've got strawberries!"

Mary laughed as she saw his parents beckon them so eagerly. She took his arm when it was offered and they joined his family on the large blanket to enjoy the beautiful day's merriment. After they had nibbled on the food and all had glasses of lemonade, Isobel made an impromptu toast.

"Although another year has passed, it's safe to say my dearest husband and son; you appear to me no older than the last!"

"Hear, hear," Dr. Crawley said as he affectionately kissed his wife's hand.

"Matthew," he said after a moment, "You should open your presents first."

"No, Papa," he insisted. "You first. You were born before I was."

"Matthew," Dr. Crawley said with mock annoyance. "I insist. Don't argue with your Papa."

"Honestly," Isobel said in playful exasperation. "Mary," she said turning to their guest. "It is so lovely to have you here as they fight about this every year and I am often called to play judge and jury."

The two men chuckled together at this declaration.

"It would seem that Isobel has been given a reprieve this year," Dr. Crawley stated. "So, Mary, please choose which of us is to go first."

"Yes," Matthew said in agreement. "Who will it be?"

Mary didn't hesitate. "Dr. Crawley," she said as she reached over and found her small gift.

"I smell a plot," Dr. Crawley frowned at his son.

"Mary is her own woman, Papa," Matthew said, holding his hands up innocently. "I could no sooner give her orders than I could Mother."

"Thank you, Mary," Dr. Crawley said as he carefully unwrapped the tissue paper around the present. His attention to detail was the same as when he was wrapping a bandage, Mary noticed.

"A new journal…and a fountain pen!" Dr. Crawley laughed as he removed the items. "This is very generous, Mary. It's far more than you should have spent on an old man."

"Nonsense," Mary returned firmly. "It was my pleasure. And it goes along with Matthew's present."

"Does it now?" Dr. Crawley said fondly as he looked at his son. "I knew a scheme was afoot."

"Yes," Matthew said eagerly. He reached for and then offered his gift. It was a simple box with a single bow on top.

Dr. Crawley untied the ribbon and reached inside to find a brand new pair of binoculars.

"Oh, Good Lord!" He exclaimed as he held the new gift with reverence.

"It's for your bird watching," Matthew said proudly.

"Darling, you shouldn't always encourage your father's folly towards his weekend expeditions," Isobel said dryly, although her bright eyes betrayed her pride in such a thoughtful gesture. "Now he'll be boring Mary to tears with chapter and verse on how the Royal Society was formed."

"Too late. I've already educated her," Dr. Crawley smiled. "And for that bit of cheek, my dear wife, you shall accompany me for the next expedition. We will go to Didsbury and trek the banks of the Mersey."

"Didsbury?" Matthew said in mock alarm. "Why, Papa, that's _almost_ outside the city!"

Isobel and Matthew laughed and Mary could not help but join in. She reached for her lemonade to settle herself. It was such a lovely afternoon to spend with Matthew and his family. While there were no footmen or maids attending to them, no silver trays of canapés and champagne flutes being passed around, she was enjoying herself immensely.

After the rest of the presents had all been unwrapped, Isobel and Mary took a stroll along the paths of the garden. Matthew leaned back on his outstretched arms as he watched them walk away, chatting so pleasantly together. Dr. Crawley lit a cigar and noticed his son's gaze.

"Mary appears very happy. A far cry from the young woman I first encountered in the hospital. I trust you have played some role in that?" he asked lightly.

Matthew turned his gaze towards his father. He swallowed awkwardly, feeling uneasy. Discussing his relationship with Mary was a delicate matter. He liked that it was something just between the two of them, only to be shared when they deemed it necessary. On the other hand, he was sometimes lost and aimless when it came to Mary. She was unlike anyone he had ever met, and part of her allure was that he knew there was some mystery to her. There was something holding her back, and he knew he must be patient in order to earn her trust enough for her to share whatever it was.

"Papa," Matthew said cautiously, "I don't know how to discuss such subjects with you," he finally said.

"Tell me anything, nothing is forbidden or taboo. Always talk to me Matthew, that is my dearest wish," he said calmly. "I know you have honest intentions towards Mary, and in time I hope they come to fruition."

"Thank you," Matthew said warmly. "When I know more, before I act, I will seek your steady guidance. I can say that…well…I am quite certain I shall be acting with regard to Mary, and very soon I hope."

"My guidance you shall have, Matthew," Dr. Crawley said as he patted his son's shoulder. "I love it here," he said fondly as he puffed on his cigar. "The ginkgo tree leaves remind me of four leaf clovers. I've been so lucky," he said nostalgically. "To have your mother and then you," he paused. "And maybe a daughter someday soon…"

"Papa," Matthew rolled his eyes.

Dr. Crawley chuckled at his son's reaction. He put a hand through his gray hair. "My boy, you know I'm rubbish when it comes to personal matters. I'm a late bloomer in the garden of life and love. If it weren't for your mother, I'd still be simply a phantom slinking through the hospital. A man concerned with helping others and never knowing how to help himself. I'm transparent in that I am incapable of stopping to reflect on myself, I only want to help; your mother calls it my Achilles' heel."

Matthew nodded.

"I'm sorry I have to burden you with this, but as my only child you must carry the full weight of your father's hopes and dreams. It's a harsh thing – wanting the best for your child but not quite knowing how to lead him there. That's why I am so pleased for you and Mary. The two of you…well…the two of you make your mother and I quite happy."

Matthew was silent as he looked at his father. He smiled at him.

"Anyway, there's no need to delve too deeply into memories of the past," Dr. Crawley said as he extinguished his cigar. "Focus on Mary, my boy, and dreams for the future."


	8. Chapter 8

_**Manchester Royal Infirmary, Manchester, England, February 1911**_

* * *

Matthew walked down the hall, taking his time and trying to appear as casual as possible. Each time that a nurse came into view, he would look over, then turn his gaze away when he identified who the woman was, or more importantly, who she was not.

He glanced about once more as he came to the familiar office doorway, looking in both directions before finally exhaling and shaking his head ruefully at his behaviour. What was the use? Even if she did appear, what would he say to her?

'_Oh, hello! Imagine seeing you here again…in the place where you work every day…'_

Matthew grumbled under his breath. He could argue with lawyers and judges, question clients and drone on to junior associates for hours without so much as a cue card or scribbled note to guide him. But just the thought of saying hello to a nurse's assistant left him tongue tied.

But she wasn't just a nurse's assistant was she?

"Papa," he called, leaning against the doorway.

Dr. Reginald Crawley was writing away at his desk, a large pile of file folders on one side of him. Even when he was busy, his father always left the door open. As he often told Matthew, he wanted everyone to know he was busy, but never unapproachable.

"Ah! Matthew!" Dr. Crawley smiled, continuing to write his notes and not looking up as he addressed his son. "Come in and have a seat. I'm finishing my notes on this last patient. I'll only be a moment."

"Of course," Matthew nodded but he didn't move to comply with his father's offer. Instead, he stood in the doorway, his hat in his hands. Matthew looked idly down the hall, and then turned his head to look in the opposite direction. His fingers played with the brim of his hat, running around and around it.

When Dr. Crawley did not see his son come into the office and did not hear the familiar creak of the chair moving as he sat down, he looked up from his notes and observed his son standing in the doorway. Smirking to himself, Dr. Crawley went back to writing.

"She should be by in a few minutes," he said, his eyes still focused on writing down the symptoms that Mr. Atwell had presented with moments earlier and the treatment he had prescribed.

"Pardon?" Matthew frowned at this statement, looking back to his father's hunched form.

"Mary Crawley," Dr. Crawley replied, still looking at the page in front of him. "She's attending to a patient and I expect she will be finished shortly and come back here for further instructions."

Matthew cleared his throat. "That's all well and good, Father, but I don't see how that should interest me," Matthew said, feigning a bored tone and failing horribly, producing a rather strange high pitched croak instead.

Dr. Crawley looked up from his notes again and grinned widely at his only child. It was a tiny detail, but he had always observed that Matthew only called him _Father_ when he was annoyed or frazzled; normally he always used the more affectionate term of _Papa_. He shouldn't necessarily indulge Matthew's personal matters – that was a job for his mother to handle. But, Dr. Crawley lived by many creeds and medical oaths, and a significant promise that Isobel had told him shortly after they had first met.

"_Try to be one of the people on whom nothing is lost."_

The Henry James quote spoke volumes to him, as that was his very mission as a doctor, and she had diagnosed him and his ambitions so skilfully. So, now as he observed his son, his attitude was fittingly bemused.

"Perhaps then you'll be content to wait outside the hospital for me, if standing in the hallway and glancing about to see which nurses pass by does not interest you at all?"

Matthew's mouth opened to protest, but he was silent before he shrugged and stared at the ground.

"There's nothing wrong with wanting to see Mary again, Matthew. Although you only met her last week, you've been by to visit every day since, hoping to run into her again, and you've been successful every time. It's perfectly understandable," Dr. Crawley said patiently, going back to his notes.

"I haven't come by hoping to see her," Matthew said defensively, "I came here because I have an appointment to have lunch with you and Mother."

"As much as I enjoy a visit, _daily_ appearances here are a rare bird, even for you. Anyway, I'm merely saying that I expect…"

"Matthew!" a cheerful voice called from down the hall.

Matthew's head snapped in her direction and his eyes brightened. He turned and placed his hands behind his back, squeezing the brim of his hat.

"Mary," Matthew nodded and smiled, "Good to see you again."

"And you," Mary smiled back shyly, coming into the doorway.

"Dr. Crawley," she said looking away from Matthew as she stated her business. "Mrs. Bell claims she is ready to be discharged, but I don't think she is," Mary said plainly. "In any event, her son cannot come to collect her until later this afternoon. I told her you would need to see her one last time but you're having lunch with your son, so you'll be by around four."

Dr. Crawley appraised the young woman and smirked.

"You do enjoy making me the villain, don't you?" he asked with a smile.

"You can blame your wife. She's the one who told me to use that strategy," Mary smiled back.

"Except in her case, it isn't just a strategy," Dr. Crawley replied easily.

"Papa!" Matthew frowned.

"I'm only joking," Dr. Crawley smiled good-naturedly, happy to hear the return of this less formal moniker from his son's lips.

"It seems my notes are taking a bit longer than I expected, and Mary, I see you have a break in your schedule. Why don't you join us for lunch?"

Mary's eyes widened and she glanced at Matthew nervously before looking down at Dr. Crawley's office floor.

"Oh, that's quite all right. I was just going to eat in the commissary," she replied.

"Nonsense," Dr. Crawley said, looking back down at his notepad. "We'll be glad to have you. I'll pay. We're going just around the corner and the place has fantastic food. Please go and fetch Isobel and meet us by the front entrance. Matthew and I will be along once I'm finished."

Dr. Crawley returned to his notes.

There was silence between the two young people as Mary cautiously looked at Matthew.

"Better do what he says," Matthew advised politely. "Trust me. When he puts his head back down, it means he doesn't want to talk about it any further."

Mary smiled and nodded. She left and walked quickly down the hall in search of Isobel, biting her bottom lip at the prospect of having lunch with Matthew and his parents.

"You're welcome," Dr. Crawley said, still not looking up at his son. "But, my boy," he said warmly, "Next time I will expect you to show your own initiative and give her a proper invitation, knowing you have my blessing. After all, there is only so much I can do for you, Matthew."

Matthew laughed and rolled his eyes.

"Thank you Papa," he said dutifully. "I'll keep that in mind."

* * *

_**Home of Reginald and Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, August 1912**_

* * *

Matthew stood outside the door to his parents' bedroom, his feet rooted to the floor. He knew this door so well. The brass knob had always looked golden, inviting somehow; even when it creaked slightly because it had been turned too fast. The door was walnut, and heavier than stone when he was a boy and needed comforting from a nightmare; but as light as air when he was an adolescent seeking out his Papa to share his latest grade. Standing before the door now as a grown man, it seemed strange to him – different and foreboding. He did not want to open it. The brass knob was worn out and tarnished, in need of polishing; it had lost its golden gleam, as though the room within no longer held any pleasant memories for him, but just the threat of misery and despair.

Matthew took in a shaky and ragged breath of air. He did not want to step beyond this threshold. Matthew's hands balled into fists, his eyes narrowing.

How dare his father keep this from him! He called upon the fury building in his stomach to push his tears back. How dare he think of him as a child that needed to be coddled and protected from the harsh realities of the world! He was a lawyer for God's sake! He saw the worst of people every day and did not flinch. He could take it. Matthew knew that not all truth was ephemeral and beautiful; he knew it could be ugly and raw. He could handle this. He could have handled it when the first suspicions had formed in his father's mind. He could have been part of the solution, instead of being told later on when there was none to be found.

Matthew exhaled and closed his eyes. The tears washed over his fury and threatened to spill from beneath his eyelids. He swallowed hard and blinked several times. He reached tentatively for the brass doorknob, finding it seemed further away to him than usual, and opened the door.

His parents' bedroom was dark; the lights all out except for a dim lamp next to the bed. Matthew did not need the light. He had come into this room in pitch black darkness hundreds of times. Matthew heard his father's laboured wheezing first, then made out the shape of his thin frame under the blankets. He walked deliberately to the bedside and sat down in the chair placed there. As a child, he had often sat in this chair as his parents lay in bed and his father read the newspaper or a favourite book aloud for both he and his mother to hear. He hated this chair now.

"Son," Dr. Crawley said his voice quiet but the timbre still strong and possessive.

"I'm here," Matthew said quietly.

"I can see that," Dr. Crawley smirked, his eyes bright in the dim light. "I may be dying, but I'm not blind."

"Don't joke!" Matthew snarled. "Don't make it small, not when I'm trying to understand."

"You understand perfectly well," Dr. Crawley replied complacently. "You just don't want to accept it, and I do not blame you for that. I still haven't myself, despite all evidence to the contrary."

"You didn't have to keep it a secret," Matthew said, his expression softening. "Why didn't you let us help you?"

"Sometimes people have to keep secrets," Dr. Crawley said softly, "Besides, you did help me. You helped me by showing me what a wonderful man you have become. By being a good man, a caring man, a doting son to your mother, and a loving partner to Mary. Don't you think seeing that has been the most-soothing balm I could ask for?"

"I would rather have cut you open and remove whatever vile thing lies beneath," Matthew answered grimly.

"There aren't enough scalpels and forceps for that operation, I'm afraid," Dr. Crawley said frankly.

The two men sat in silence for several moments. Dr. Crawley continued to wheeze, a smile never leaving his face while Matthew continued to stare blankly at him. He had heard that wheeze before, though it sounded deafening to his ears now. Every cough, every gasp, every clearing of his father's throat – how had Matthew ignored them all?

"Papa," Matthew finally whispered. "How long?"

"A month? Maybe less? One can never be sure about these things. Someday we may be able to look inside a patient and see their condition and accurately predict how much time he has left. Today, all we can do is guess, and Albert thinks it's three weeks, based on the amount of fluid he thinks has accumulated."

Every few words would cause Dr. Crawley to gasp or catch his breath. Matthew cringed at first, and then forced himself to hold his father's gaze and show no reaction. A Crawley hated to be pitied.

"How do you expect me to endure these next few weeks or months knowing that I'm losing more of you each day?" Matthew said.

"You're never losing me," Dr. Crawley smiled defiantly. "Don't you see? Every lesson that I teach you, every piece of advice, and every moment that we share is me pouring myself into you, my son. And you have handled it all brilliantly, and have taken what you need and left behind what you don't and become a man that I am proud of beyond words. If I don't last the night, I am already blessed for you have turned out better than I ever could have dreamed. So, a few more weeks with you and your Mother is a rare gift."

"Papa," Matthew swallowed. "I had plans. I had moments in my mind that we would be sharing as I got older. I was going to buy you a retirement home, somewhere near the City, but not in the City."

Dr. Crawley laughed, which caused him to cough several times. He nodded to Matthew to continue.

"I was going to get you season tickets to Old Trafford," Matthew said, speaking quickly. "The good ones, near the players' bench."

"How many?" Dr. Crawley asked.

"Four," Matthew smiled weakly. "Mother doesn't like to watch, but Mary would go, at least at first, and we would need an extra seat eventually for…" Matthew grimaced and bit his lip.

"For my grandchild," Dr. Crawley continued.

"You're going to miss all of that. We're going to miss all of that," Matthew groaned.

"It's a lovely plan," Dr. Crawley said. "But like all grand plans, things change, and as the architect of this plan, you must adapt, Matthew. You must keep your vision, and change the pieces to adapt."

"I…I just feel so lost…" Matthew said sadly.

"Lost," Dr. Crawley repeated quietly, "Yes, I sympathize. I remember strolling through the park with you in your pram, your mother by my side; strangers would make assumptions and congratulate me on my grandson. I was mortified. I felt lost," Dr. Crawley said nostalgically. "Not for myself, but for Isobel, this stunning woman saddled with a fussy old coot like me. But, it never bothered her. What was important was the end result – we had you, we had our baby, and the manner in which we got there was ultimately inconsequential."

Matthew nodded his head reluctantly.

"Anyway, there will be time to talk about many things. For right now, before your mother brings Mary in, I want to talk to you about something of paramount importance."

"Which is?" Matthew asked, frowning at the seriousness of his father's tone and the change of subject.

"Downton."

"No, Papa," Matthew shook his head vigorously.

"Matthew, if what Lord Merton and Mr. Murray told us is true, the clock ticks away and the cousins can't be found, this means that you will soon be the last heir to the Earl of Grantham."

"No. No, please," Matthew choked. "I can't listen to another word of this."

"Listen to me!" Dr. Crawley said firmly, and Matthew was once again ten years old, standing rigid as his Father stood tall and imposing before him. His anxiety stopped and he sat still, waiting for instruction.

"If you are the last heir, then the Earl of Grantham will summon you. It may not be this year, it may not be next year, but you will be summoned at some point in the future. They will expect you to go to Yorkshire and take up your position."

"I won't do it, Papa," Matthew said resolutely.

"You will," Dr. Crawley nodded.

"Do not ask this of me," Matthew cried. "Let them have their world, Papa. Let them leave us in peace."

"They will not, if what we have been told is true," Dr. Crawley replied. "And the more that I think about it, the more I believe that we should not let them off."

"Why?" Matthew pleaded.

"You will go to Yorkshire. You will take up the title of heir to the Earl of Grantham, and you will use that position to make things right. You will make things right…for Mary," Dr. Crawley said pointedly.

Matthew's eyes went wide. "She doesn't want me to, Papa. I told her that I would go in your stead if you were ever summoned and she forbade me. Don't you think we're better off here?"

"You would do very well here, Matthew, and you can always return if you wish. This is your home, and always will be. You're a Manc, through and through," Dr. Crawley smiled wistfully.

"But," he continued. "A great deal was taken from Mary before she arrived here, Matthew, as you know. A very great deal. As much as I have tried to ignore it, I do not believe we can any longer. She deserves to have all that was lost restored to her, Matthew. I have always believed this to be true, but never had the means to do anything about it. It was never a question of money. It was the need to first be in their world. You can't change anything with that lot unless you are first part of Society. And now we are. Not just on the periphery or by loose association. You will be the Earl of Grantham one day. So, you must take up this cause. You must do this for her."

"But, Papa, I can provide a life for her here. I don't need her family. I don't need their wealth. I don't need their title. I can give Mary the life she deserves without ever setting foot in Yorkshire," Matthew objected.

"This isn't about you, Matthew," Dr. Crawley said patiently. "This isn't about money. This isn't even about just the Earldom. This is about what is right. And what is right is to not ignore or cast a blind eye to all that was done to Mary in the past. What is right is to give her the choice that she was denied. The choice to choose the life she wishes on her terms, not anyone else's, including yours or mine."

"She will fight me on this," Matthew shook his head. "She doesn't want any part of it. She already endured so much pain to leave that life behind her. She will be very difficult to convince."

"She only did so out of necessity," Dr. Crawley shook his head. "She believed that there was no use fighting. She believed no one would fight for her. She gave up hope because to do otherwise would have torn her apart inside. That's different now. You can be her hope. You can fight for her."

"Against her own family, Papa?" Matthew asked doubtfully. "Against all of London Society? Against their traditions and conventions and beliefs?"

Dr. Crawley narrowed his eyes and looked at his son sternly. Matthew swallowed. Even though he was bedridden, even though his breath was growing harsher with each passing moment, he appeared tall and magnificent, commanding and unavoidable. His voice was strong and firm.

"What did you promise, Matthew? What did you vow?"

Matthew closed his eyes. His promise. The words sang through his mind as though they were uttered mere moments ago, rather than last year. He could never forget them. They were the most beautiful melodies he had ever spoken or heard.

"To love and cherish her," Matthew whispered, opening his eyes and finding his father's softened expression.

"To love and cherish her," Dr. Crawley repeated tenderly, nodding to his son with pride. "And does that include protecting her?"

"Yes."

"Does that include defending her honour?"

"Yes."

"Does that include putting right all libel and slander, attacks, complaints, smears and besmirches to her name and reputation?"

"Yes."

"You will do this, Matthew. You will do your duty to Mary. You will do your duty to your wife," Dr. Crawley nodded.

Matthew exhaled and kept his father's gaze, an entire discourse passing silently between their eyes alone.

"Yes, Papa," Matthew said firmly, his heart swelling.

"Swear it to me, Matthew," Dr. Crawley demanded, and in that moment, Matthew thought he had never heard his father appear so desperate. "Swear to me that you will not allow the world to continue to believe a lie about your wife. Swear to me that you will restore her to where she belongs – that you will give her the chance to be Countess of Grantham."

Matthew reached out and clutched his father's hand. The grip was still firm, the warmth still evident.

The door behind them opened.

"Reginald, Mary is here," Isobel said softly.

"I swear it, Papa," Matthew said quietly, keeping his gaze locked on his father's eyes.

Dr. Crawley seemed to smile in relief, squeezing Matthew's hand in thanks.

"I swear it," Matthew whispered.

* * *

_**Old Nags Head Pub, Manchester, England, October 1911**_

* * *

"Are you sure? There's still time," Matthew said, keeping his voice low even though there was no one else in this part of the pub. "We can just have dinner as planned and not mention anything."

"I'm sure," Mary sighed. "They need to know."

"No, they don't," Matthew shook his head. "They won't care, Mary. You're going to be my wife. It doesn't matter what they think about it, and so it doesn't matter if they even know."

"I don't want any secrets, Matthew," Mary said firmly. "It destroyed my last family. I won't let it harm my new one. We have to hide our marriage from the world, but not the world we care about."

"All right. I understand," Matthew nodded.

They heard a familiar cheerful laugh from outside their private room as the bartender greeted Dr. Crawley and Isobel. Matthew's parents soon appeared at the doorway, laughing and smiling.

"Mary!" Isobel beamed, taking her hands and squeezing them as Mary rose to greet Matthew's mother. "I've heard superb things about your work today."

"I'm sure it has been exaggerated," Mary blushed, sitting back down.

"Certainly not!" Dr. Crawley laughed, holding out his wife's chair, and then taking a seat of his own opposite Matthew. "Matthew, would you believe that your Mary saved a man's life today?"

Matthew grinned at her.

"It was nothing," Mary shook her head, attempting to deflect the praise. "I merely noticed that we were missing a sponge."

"Merely noticed!" Isobel laughed. "A sponge that was left inside the patient!" she said pointedly. "Why, Christopher was about to sew him back up, and Lord knows what would have happened then!"

"At best the patient would have had to have been operated on again, at great cost. At worst, the sponge could fester and damage his internal organs. The reputation of the hospital would have been in jeopardy in any event," Dr. Crawley shook his head.

"Very well done, darling," Matthew smiled, kissing her hand.

Mary smiled politely. Her stomach fluttered, and it was not out of nervousness this time.

"Champagne is in order!" Dr. Crawley declared. "A congratulatory drink for such a wonderful achievement!"

"Papa, wait," Matthew grew serious, looking at Mary in reassurance. "Before we order, there's two things that we need to tell both of you."

"Nothing bad, I hope?" Isobel frowned.

"No, certainly not," Mary shook her head. "Although it may…change things."

Dr. Crawley and Isobel cast a concerned look at each other.

"Well, by all means, Matthew, please, tell us," Dr. Crawley said.

Matthew opened his mouth to speak and Mary touched his arm.

"Matthew is just being gallant, as always," she said. "It's actually my story to tell."

All of them turned towards her and Mary clasped her hands together, trying to calm herself.

"There was a reason that I came to Manchester back in February, a reason I have not told anyone except Matthew," she began.

"You don't need to share any secrets with us, Mary," Isobel interrupted. "We are very fond of you, you must know that, but we don't mean to be nosey."

"No, you need to know," Mary nodded. "You see, I came to Manchester quite unexpectedly. It was essentially the last place I could go…because of my reputation. I chose Manchester because very few people knew me here, and I could start over."

Dr. Crawley frowned.

"Before I came here, I lived in Yorkshire, at Downton Abbey, to be exact. My father is Robert Crawley, the Earl of Grantham."

"Oh my Lord," Isobel gasped, her eyes wide. "No one ever mentioned her name when…"

"You're the Earl of Grantham's eldest daughter?" Dr. Crawley asked. "The one who…"

"She's Mary Crawley," Matthew said firmly, staring directly at his parents. "The woman I love."

Dr. Crawley and Isobel looked at each other, and then back at Mary and Matthew.

"Mary," Isobel said quietly. "I am so sorry. I cannot imagine what you have been through."

Mary's eyes widened as Isobel reached out and touched her hand kindly. She looked at Dr. Crawley and instead of finding scorn, saw only sympathy.

"You aren't shocked?" Mary asked. "Disappointed? Angry? Disgusted with me?"

"Why would we be any of those things?" Dr. Crawley frowned in confusion. "This doesn't change what we think of you, Mary. It only lets us know what a horrible past you have had."

"But aren't you concerned? Aren't you afraid that I may ruin Matthew?" Mary asked, ironically beginning to think of all the reasons that Matthew's parents should be angry with her.

"Ruin Matthew?" Dr. Crawley repeated incredulously. "But how could you possibly…"

"What does what you've done before have anything to do with Matthew?" Isobel asked. "That was your past life, and it shouldn't stop the two of you from getting along."

"It isn't important," Dr. Crawley agreed.

"Wait," Isobel interjected, her eyes widening. "You mentioned that you had _two _things to tell us."

Matthew grinned at his parents.

"God in Heaven!" Isobel gasped. "Are you telling us…"

"Yes, I've asked Mary to be my wife, and she has very kindly accepted my proposal," Matthew beamed.

Isobel and Dr. Crawley looked at each other, and then burst into wide grins, getting up from their chairs and embracing Matthew and a completely stunned Mary.

"My daughter!" Isobel laughed, squeezing Mary quite thoroughly. "Oh, I am so very pleased!"

Mary stared at Matthew in shock. He winked at her, accepting his father's handshake and his mother's embrace. Once they composed themselves and sat back down, Dr. Crawley called for champagne with strawberries and Isobel looked over the menu.

"If I realized this would be such a celebration, I would have chosen a different restaurant rather than your father's old smoking haunt," Isobel frowned, turning the menu over to examine the back page. "I do hope they have a proper cake of some sort."

"I'm sorry, I still don't understand," Mary shook her head. "You both have heard what all of London Society thinks about me, and yet you seem strangely happy that I am marrying your son?"

"Happy doesn't begin to describe it," Isobel smiled at Matthew.

"Over the moon wouldn't begin to describe it," Dr. Crawley chuckled, "Finally," he said with relief.

"You're that desperate to see Matthew settled that you would be content for him to marry a…a…" Mary stammered.

"Oh, Mary, no!" Isobel exclaimed.

"What my parents are so eloquently trying to tell you, darling," Matthew smiled, holding her hand. "Is that we have far more faith in what we know from our own experience with you than what anyone else would tell us about you. So, as you will recall I previously said, my parents don't care about your past, and neither do I."

"And what we know about you is that you are a very fine young lady, Mary," Isobel smiled. "And we are so happy that you want to spend your life with Matthew."

"How could we possibly care about your past when the future is so very bright for the both of you!" Dr. Crawley smiled.

Mary could only smile back in astonishment.

"I may not be as worthy of your son as you think I am," Mary said quietly.

"You underestimate yourself, Mary," Dr. Crawley laughed. "Or you are overestimating Matthew."

"We may also not have the type of wedding that you envisioned for him," she added carefully.

"Do you think we are all about the pomp of the ceremony, my dear?" Isobel laughed.

"So long as the two of you are husband and wife, have whatever wedding you choose," Dr. Crawley smiled. "Matthew could use someone to shake him up a bit, and you are just the woman he needs."

"Champagne, Dr. Crawley," the waitress smiled as she brought the bottle to the table.

"We'll all take a flute, please! We're toasting a very special occasion."

"Congratulations," the waitress nodded simply, pouring the champagne for them.

"Thank you," Mary smiled, still in shock as Matthew and his parents took brought their glasses forward and clinked them against her own.

* * *

_**Home of Reginald and Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, August 1912**_

* * *

Mary sat down in the chair that Matthew had just vacated. The door closed softly behind her and she blinked several times. She felt small and lonely in this bedroom, despite Dr. Crawley sitting up and leaning back against the pillows before her. Only very rarely had she ever been in her own parents' bedroom, so it felt strange to be in this bedroom now for the first time, especially given the circumstances.

"I'm sorry that it's so dark in here," Dr. Crawley smiled. "Isobel wants me to rest, and she knows if she keeps the lights on, I'll get up to something."

Mary nodded slowly. After her incident, she used to keep the lights off in her own bedroom at Downton Abbey as well. The only light would be the ray entering from the door when Anna brought her tray, or Sybil snuck in to soothe her tears. She felt banished even then, forced to stay in her room by Cousin James, her every movement watched. To turn on the lights would have reminded her of all the happy memories from her home, and she didn't want to remember them, didn't want to keep them with her when her world was slipping from her grasp. That distant room and distant time seemed like going to the County Fair compared to what Mary was feeling now.

"I suppose you're angry with me," Dr. Crawley said softly.

"No," Mary shook her head sadly. "For once you're wrong. There are many things in life that I am angry about, but nothing concerning you."

"That's very kind, Mary," Dr. Crawley smiled.

"I'm just so very sorry," Mary said, keeping his gaze with determination. She sat on the edge of her seat, leaning forward. "You've given me so much, and I was looking forward to the day that I could repay the favour. I've never told Matthew this, but it was my private wish to someday put your grandson in your arms, to maybe even name him Reginald."

"Oh no," Dr. Crawley laughed with difficulty. "Please don't do that to a charming little chap. He'd be such a poor fellow saddled with such a name!"

Mary laughed with him briefly; she took his macabre better than his own son.

"You and Matthew are so very similar in some things. Both of you think that only in my retirement, only in the future would you make me happy," Dr. Crawley said kindly.

Mary smiled as she stared at her father-in-law. It had always been easy to smile in his company, but now she found she was doing it more out of sadness and sympathy, and this made her feel even more sad.

"I am thankful every day for you, Mary," he continued. "The best things always happened to me in the halls of the hospital, meeting my darling Isobel of course, but also seeing you."

Mary's clasped hands tightened together as though a vice was squeezing her. She braced herself against his kind words, willing herself to remain coherent and not break down; to continue smiling while her heart broke into pieces.

"Do you know," Dr. Crawley said after clearing his throat emotionally, "We tried for so long to have a baby. Isobel wanted a girl. I wanted a boy. We used to laugh about that a lot as we couldn't seem to agree on _anything_. Eventually, we thought it would get sorted out the natural way as we expected to have a large family. But, then things didn't work out as we planned and just when we thought we would end up childless, along came Matthew."

"_Gift from God_," Mary whispered.

"Exactly," Dr. Crawley smiled. "Our saving grace in so many ways," he said contemplatively. "Well, as much as I love my son, I'm greedy and I always wished we could have another child too, a daughter, as much for my sake as for Isobel's. There's something about girls, you know."

"I do," Mary nodded. "I have two younger sisters."

"I always knew Matthew would settle down one day, with a nice girl, a sweet girl. And so I looked forward to it, knowing that one day, we would have our daughter," Dr. Crawley smiled in nostalgia.

Mary blinked back her tears. She didn't fit that description, 'nice' and 'sweet' were not words that could be used about her.

"What I could never imagine, Mary," Dr. Crawley said with a hint of cheer. "Is that my daughter would be a woman like you, a strong woman, who is brave and compassionate. I could not have asked for anyone better to share Matthew's life. I could not have dreamed of anyone better suited for him than you. And so I am thankful. I am thankful that I lived to see the two of you married and revel in your first year of marriage. That is the best gift of all."

"You give me far too much credit," Mary shook her head. "You always have."

"You're wrong," Dr. Crawley said firmly. "I thought I was doing you a favour by rescuing you from Cassandra that fateful day. Little did I realize that my family would receive a gift in return far more valuable than the small task that I accomplished that day."

Mary cried, the tears falling from her cheeks unabated. It was unfair. It was wrong. It was a reminder of just how much joy had been taken from her life. Dr. Crawley took her hand gently.

"He'll need you, Mary," Dr. Crawley said softly. "Isobel too, but she'll make do. She will go on. Matthew though, he will need you very much. I'm afraid he's a lot like me, stubborn to a fault, and always prefers to keep his pain inside, so as not to burden his loved ones."

Mary nodded, swallowing in a deep breath and trying to calm herself.

"Now, I think I'll get some sleep. Don't worry, my dear Mary. I'll be here tomorrow morning. I can promise you that much."

Dr. Crawley squeezed her hand and Mary returned the gesture. Her father-in-law closed his eyes, his breathing jagged and uneven. She rose swiftly from her chair and walked briskly out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her. When she looked down the corridor, she saw that Matthew was standing against the wall, his face downcast.

Of course he would wait for her, Mary thought. He would assume she needed his comfort, rather than look to his own grief first. And she did need him. It was as though the shocking loss of Dr. Crawley was akin to tearing a way a part of the life she had built for herself in Manchester, and she needed to cling to the biggest part left – to her husband.

"Matthew," Mary said, coming into his embrace and holding him tight. His hands clutched at her back, then he moved his fingers up to her hair and held her against him. He kissed her cheek, no words seemed necessary or appropriate in this moment. Neither of them knew where to begin.

Mary closed her eyes and breathed in his scent, kissing his neck lightly. His body was rigid, and he was eerily silent. She imagined that he was gritting his teeth and pursing his lips, hanging on to his composure out of respect for her, when an hour ago he was sobbing against her downstairs.

Mary squeezed her eyes further shut. The tears that had stopped momentarily when she left the bedroom returned, and she rubbed her husband's back in gentle circles.

Matthew gasped, letting out a long breath and sagging against the wall, pulling his wife tighter to him. He had walked down this hall to his father's bedroom full of anger and fury and frustration, mad at his parents for not telling him what was going on, mad at the disease that was defeating the strongest man he knew, mad at fate for showing him a beautiful life for him and Mary and their family and destroying that image in one fell swoop.

When he left his parents' bedroom and waited for Mary to have her conversation with his father, the anger was gone, the grief and despair filling him so profoundly that he could not be bothered to save any room to be mad anymore. His father was dying. How soon after would Mother follow? Wasn't that what people said about couples who had been together for so long? When one passed on, the other didn't remain for much longer. Matthew's world was falling apart, the ones he loved fading away from him. He would be alone. Someday soon, he would be alone, the family he grew up in this house with would be gone. It would just be him. Him and…

When Mary came out of the bedroom and he saw the tracks of her tears on her pale face, his heart skipped a beat and his resolve seemed to flare fiercely. His Mary. His wife. He would make things right for her, just as his father ordered him to. That would be his tribute. That would be his mission. He could not save Dr. Reginald Crawley. But he could try to make things right for Mary, and if he somehow succeeded, he knew that his father would be proud.

Matthew tried to be stoic, and brave, and unmoving. As he took Mary into his arms, he tried to be a pillar of strength for her, to calm the sorrow that he knew she must be feeling. His parents loved Mary, and she loved them, and losing his father would hurt her deeply.

"Don't keep it in, Matthew, please," she whispered. "I don't need to be protected. I need you."

Matthew shut his eyes and buried his face in her shoulder, a wrenched cry flying from his chest as hot tears flowed.

Their combined sobs echoed quietly down the dark hallway.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Home of Reginald and Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, August 1912**_

* * *

Matthew sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea that had grown cold. He continued to drink the now chilled chamomile, hoping it might calm him enough to sleep. Though it was understandable that he was perpetually unnerved these days, given recent events, that did not make his inability to shut his mind down any less tolerable. He idly played with the end of his loose tie, flicking the silk between his fingers again and again. His eyes were clouded and stared blankly at the table, his free hand lifting the cold tea to his lips once more.

The last two weeks sometimes felt as if they had passed in minutes. Matthew was so determined to remember every moment spent with his father that they were beginning to bleed together into one long conversation. Dr. Crawley had gamely tried to join them for dinner as usual, even inquiring as to the goings on at the hospital and other ridiculously irrelevant topics. They had maintained the ruse for a week after Isobel had revealed his condition, but then the wheezing had worsened and Dr. Boyd ordered him to stay home and after several long arguments with Isobel and Matthew, he had relented. He had left instructions at the hospital for certain patients, scheduling follow up appointments for two weeks ahead. It was not lost upon any of Isobel, Matthew or Mary why Dr. Crawley had chosen a two-week leave of absence.

This evening, after another dinner that was full of effort and enthusiasm but short on optimism, Matthew had the annoying task of walking Mary back to Lady Philomena's house. The old battle axe had returned from London with her household and any hope Matthew had of Mary spending the night had evaporated. For once his wish to keep her in his bed was entirely innocent. He needed to feel her with him, her presence alone surely the best sleeping tonic he could hope for. Sadly, though Mary's whereabouts were often ignored, the servants were sure to notice when she wasn't in her bedroom in the morning. Though Lady Philomena already thought the worst of Mary as it was, the woman still had no reason to withhold any details from Lord Merton, and if it was discovered that Mary had slept elsewhere, it would raise an alarm. So he escorted her home reluctantly, seeing her off a block away from her home, and watching from the distance until she was safely inside.

Matthew often imagined confronting Lord Merton, declaring that Mary was his wife and spiriting her away as though they were living some dream or sappy romantic play. She would have none of it though. He had promised her not to fight her on this, and though he did raise it from time to time, he always relented. Having Mary as his wife on any terms was better than not having her at all.

But it was at times like these, on nights like these, that he missed her terribly. His mother attended to his father, spending long hours with him talking in private, being the support that he needed. Matthew felt as though it wasn't his place to intrude on them, and so he would retreat into a corner and deal with his own grief as best he could. During the day, when he could distract himself at the office, engage his parents in a pleasant conversation or spend time with Mary, he kept himself sufficiently busy to avoid dwelling on the harsh truth facing him. But at night, with Mary gone and his parents upstairs, Matthew sat alone, unable to sleep, accompanied only by a cold cup of tea and the spectre of his father's looming death.

It was therefore with surprise and shock that Matthew flinched as the kitchen door opened slowly. He thought he may have woken Mrs. Bird by accident, but instead, another woman stepped into the room.

"Oh, hello dear," Isobel said quietly. She appeared as shocked as he was at finding another person awake at this strange lonesome hour of the night. She turned on another light reluctantly, then quickly went to the counter and busied herself with reheating the kettle for tea.

"Mother," Matthew replied, his voice a mix of sad resignation and bitter irritation.

How many times had his mother come down to the kitchen in the dark of the night, seeking some respite from his father's condition, or perhaps something to soothe his symptoms and allow him to sleep? What if Matthew had just been awake for even one of these forays? What if he had seen her earlier, discovered what his parents were hiding from him and Mary? What if he could have done something?

What if he had at least _tried_ to do something?

"Is that for Papa?" he asked shakily, gesturing to the tea cup as Isobel waited for the water to boil.

"No," Isobel said as she brushed imaginary crumbs off the counter. Mrs. Bird would have been very offended by the gesture made in her kitchen.

"It's for me," she continued quietly, her voice almost breaking. Isobel's shoulders slumped as she turned her back to him, fiddling with the pantry counter. He saw her start to shake and he moved quickly from his seat. Matthew put a tentative arm on her shoulder and she turned towards him stoically.

"Mother," he said, his eyes kind and his smile showing her an understanding that neither of them wanted to voice. They embraced each other tenderly, and Matthew felt for the first time in his life that his mother was fragile, frail even. He thought he could feel the bones of her back, and along her arms as she pulled away from him. Her eyes were tired, her face drawn, and Matthew realized sadly that neither was due entirely to lack of sleep.

The tea kettle whistled, and he stepped back.

There was silence between them that Matthew did not know how to fill. She poured the boiling water and brought her cup and a tin of shortbread to the kitchen table and sat down. Matthew followed, sitting down next to her and cradling his cold and empty cup.

"Did you know," Isobel said as she cleared her throat. "That at the same time that I truly got to know your father, your grandfather pushed me towards another doctor, a man closer to my own age. He wanted to see me settled. He was probably afraid that I was getting to be too much of a handful and would soon scare off every eligible bachelor in the city. Well, finally, with great hesitation, I accepted this determined man's third proposal. I can barely remember the man's name now, let alone his face."

"What?" Matthew snapped rather loudly, a frown immediately dominating his face. "Mother, of all the things to say!"

Isobel nervously chuckled a little at his harsh reaction.

"I'm sorry, Matthew," she said cautiously. "Perhaps I'm not being very clear about what I mean to explain to you." Her hands trembled as she held her tea mug.

"This lesson must be one of the unspoken Commandments then," Matthew grumbled. "As it would need to be that serious to discuss your…former suitor…with all that is going on at the moment. I always just assumed that Papa was your first offer. I never imagined…"

"Just because you can't imagine something, doesn't mean it doesn't exist," Isobel said quietly.

"Anyway, I was quite besotted with your father, practically from the beginning. I felt I needed to do my duty and accept a man who, on the outside, seemed better suited for me. But I knew almost immediately it was a mistake. And so, a mere nine days after accepting his proposal, I threw him over."

Matthew creased his brow in astonishment.

Isobel sipped her tea and took one of the shortbread cookies, although she didn't eat it.

"My parents and my elder brother were angry with me, they called me the nine day queen like Lady Jane Grey," Isobel said with bittersweet emotion. "But, I did not give in. I was determined to remove the obstacles that kept me apart from the only man I did love. I would not settle for second best, I've always preferred to fight," she said bravely as she looked at her son.

Matthew could only nod at this statement, but it encouraged his mother enough to continue.

"Besides the fact he was older than me," Isobel continued, "Your father was also oblivious to my feelings for him so I had my work cut out for me. As you know he can be rather narrow-minded," Isobel said affectionately.

She offered him the shortbread cookie and Matthew took it automatically, eating it without any hesitation.

"I know you are grappling with how we could conceal your father's condition from you," Isobel continued. "And, well, it wasn't easy. We've fought about it regularly in the last few months. However, your father asked me to do this, and he has never asked for anything of me, nothing quite so important anyway. All he has ever wanted to do was give," Isobel wiped at her moist eyes with her free hand.

"And so I complied," she said softly. "For my love for him is as steady and true as the day I met him, as it is right now. Even though he was making me choose between my husband and my own son, I had no choice, truly, you see."

Matthew took a deep breath, looking away quickly before finding her eyes again.

"I know that you had your reasons, both of you," he said slowly.

"Still I am sorry for it," Isobel nodded. "I would do it again, but that does not mean I do not regret the pain we've caused you."

"I'm glad that you fought for Papa," Matthew said quickly, begging her with eyes to stop. He did not need apologies now. "And I'm glad that you're still fighting for him. I'm just shocked. I…" he faltered but tried again. "I don't want to imagine life without Papa. I can't."

"Well," Isobel said staunchly, "You're going to have to. We both are."

"I'd rather not think of it as death," Matthew said grudgingly, going over the explanation he had crafted in his mind over and over the past few weeks. "But, rather as though he is Odysseus, off on a noble quest into the unknown. He is still out there somewhere. I may not be able to see him, but I won't lose his presence."

Isobel smiled, her eyes moistening. "You do realize the peril of imagining your father going off on a trip as oppose to the reality," she said kindly.

"I know," Matthew nodded. "But, sometimes the fantasy is necessary."

Isobel nodded patiently. "Very well. He would be well cast in that role. And that would make me Penelope, his faithful wife waiting patiently until we can be reunited."

Matthew sighed, looking down at his tea cup, going over the thoughts in this mind before lifting his eyes once again.

"Did Papa mention anything about going to Downton to you?" Matthew asked.

"No," Isobel said, her eyebrows rising at the mention of that place. "He only used gallows humour to allude to the fact that he is now free of that obligation. I had to scold him when he used the term – over my dead body."

Matthew huffed at his father's macabre and Isobel nodded in agreement.

"He could never leave Manchester," Isobel said fondly. "He is far too stubborn, and I'm afraid I share that similar vice."

"Well," Matthew smirked. "You're going to have to. We both are."

Isobel frowned. "How so?"

"I've had to promise Papa," Matthew said hesitantly. "To go and take up my position as heir. Not with some plan to become Earl someday, but rather as a first step towards a greater goal – to restore Mary to her former place and fix all that was done to her."

Isobel's eyes widened. "A noble goal, exactly the type of mission your father would entrust to you," she nodded in understanding. "But, forgive me, Matthew, even if you were to somehow disprove the lie that was spread about your wife, the truth of what actually happened to her is equally troublesome."

"I'm working on that," Matthew said, pursing his lips. "The first step is to get to Downton Abbey, which will already be a daunting challenge. I've raised the idea with Mary before and she vehemently forbid it. Papa is right. I have to do this. But I have no idea how I will convince Mary to come with me."

"So you're trying to convince me, first," Isobel said with a small smile. "This is turning into a vicious cycle."

"Will you promise to go once I am summoned?" Matthew asked nervously.

"Not yet," Isobel said sadly. "My mind is here, with my husband for now. I have no time or energy to think beyond tomorrow. I will keep it in mind, however, when the time comes. Now, what of Mary? How is she handling all of this?"

"She has done a remarkable job of distracting me from her own pain. Her only concern is how I'm handling it. I know she must be shattered inside. She and Papa are very close. I'm hoping that I'm helping her somehow, but I doubt it's as much as she's helping me," Matthew shook his head.

"Sometimes, it's best to keep busy during these moments," Isobel said, her voice tinged with fondness. "Mary has come a long way. I remember when it seemed as though she wasn't entirely committed to you."

"It wasn't like that," Matthew said defensively. "She was trying to be selfless. She thought it better to let me go, rather than disappoint me later."

"I'm surprised that you didn't give up," Isobel said gently. "She certainly gave you reason to."

"She was too late," Matthew smirked, looking down at the table as memories flooded his mind. "I already decided that I loved her enough to spend the rest of my life with her. Much to her surprise, there was nothing she could do to ruin everything."

* * *

_**Alexandra Park, Manchester, England, August 1911**_

* * *

"You brought strawberries," Matthew laughed, reaching into the bag and plucking a rather ripe fruit.

Mary smiled. "Well, I know how much you love them."

"Perhaps I should not indulge in them so often in your presence," he smiled. "You'll think that I have a fetish of some kind."

"Don't assume I would think less of you even if you did," she replied, raising her eyebrow to him. She smirked as his eyes widened. Her stomach rolled slightly, her resolve teetering on edge. It was so easy to talk to Matthew. It had been easy from the beginning. She could laugh with him, flirt with him, forget herself with him. Was she mad to put so much faith in him? Had their time together over the past months been so enthralling that she was now on the verge of making a monumental mistake?

Matthew brought the strawberry to her mouth and she took a bite, looking away from him as she wiped some of the juice from her lips.

"I can get that for you, you know," Matthew teased.

"Matthew!" Mary scolded him. "We're in a public park!"

"Exactly, darling," Matthew smiled. "No one who knows you would ever come here. It's for the common man after all. Your Godfather and his family or associates would never venture within five kilometres of this place."

"Well, in that case," Mary smiled, feeling dangerously bold and brave. "You can kiss me."

She laughed at his bewitched expression, before her pulse jumped as he gave her a smouldering look and leaned towards her.

"Would you think less of me if I told you that I love kissing you more than I love strawberries?" he whispered before caressing her mouth tenderly with his, drawing back before either of them made the kiss more heated.

"You speak rather often of love, Matthew," Mary said playfully. "Do you truly feel it so profoundly or is this merely a well practiced routine of yours? Am I as special as you pretend, or am I merely one of many women that you have ensnared in your clutches?"

"If there were any others, Mary, which there are not," Matthew said smoothly. "I would challenge you to tell me where I would find the time to see them. Since your arrival I have spent practically every free moment with you."

Mary blushed and looked away, trying with only partial success to stop a pleased smile from crossing her lips.

"Perhaps I'm just keeping your interest for now?" she ventured, resuming her calm exterior. "You're only biding your time with me until the next new nurse's assistant is hired?"

"You forget that Cassandra did hire a new assistant recently," Matthew answered. "And contrary to what you may believe, I'm afraid that Daniel is not attractive enough to displace you."

Mary laughed freely.

Matthew smiled at her. "Keep love in your heart. A life without it is like a sunless garden when the flowers are dead."

"Oscar Wilde," Mary smirked. She thought for a moment, and then looked at him mischievously.

"At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet."

"Plato," Matthew smiled. "Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service."

"Now you're being silly," Mary said. "Shakespeare."

"I love you more than words can wield the matter. A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable. Beyond all manner of so much, I love you." His eyes seemed to cloud as he spoke, his face losing its jovial expression.

"Matthew," Mary said nervously.

"I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest," he said, moving closer to her.

"Stop it, please," Mary whispered, her eyes widening in panic.

"One-half of me is yours, the other half yours, mine own, I would say, but if mine, then yours, and so all yours," Matthew said softly, caressing her cheek.

A tear ran down Mary's cheek. "You don't know what you're saying, Matthew," she cried.

"I know what I feel," Matthew answered, holding her wide eyes firmly in his gaze. "And I know with certainty that I shall love you for the rest of my life. This declaration may be foolish, and brazen, and completely the opposite of everything I would normally do, but I love you, Mary. Ignore it if you wish, deny it if you must, but it shall not change or waver. I love you, Mary Crawley."

"You don't know me, Matthew. You don't know…you don't know what loving me means," Mary said quietly.

Matthew looked at her for a long moment.

"Try me," he smirked. "Unleash your most horrid, most terrible, most shameful reason for why I should not love you. If you are right, then my love for you was not love at all. However, Mary, if you are wrong, then I shall love you all the more, and perhaps you will be swayed that this is far from a passing fancy."

Mary watched him silently. Her heart beat madly in her chest, filling her with sensations that she had tried to bury when Cousin James had sent her to her room all those months ago. Her mind shouted at her to run away from this man. He would hurt her. Or, worse, she would surely hurt him.

Her eyes narrowed and she breathing slowed to normal. Fine. She had put her faith in him for months and he had done nothing to disappoint her. He had accepted all of her veiled answers and half-truths and not pried for more. Yes, Lady Philomena was a family friend. Yes, Lord Merton had generously arranged for her to work at the hospital. Yes, it was thanks to her family that she was in Manchester, broadening her horizons and learning a proper vocation. She owed him this. She owed him the truth, so he could save himself, escape before he said anything more that he would end up regretting.

But what if he was right? What if he did love her? What if he could love _her_?

"Very well, Matthew," Mary said quietly. "But you must listen to my entire story without interruption and you must swear that you shall never repeat any of what I am about to tell you, regardless of which one of us is ultimately proven right."

Matthew raised his hand immediately and looked at her with a confident stare.

"I swear it, Mary. It will be our secret, although you must swear that if I am right, I shall be permitted to tease you mercilessly about my triumph for as long as I wish," Matthew smiled.

Mary took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She wanted to remember that image. His smiling face. His confident, almost lustful stare that she surprisingly welcomed without fear. She needed to memorize this Matthew, the one who trusted her, believed in her, loved her despite not knowing what he was getting himself into.

She opened her eyes finally and took his hand in hers.

"It all began years ago when my Father and his cousin James decided they knew what was best for me…"

She looked from his eyes to their joined hands as she told her story, waiting for the moment when he would recoil and remove his hand, waiting for the time that he would finally break and stand up, backing away from her in horror, waiting for which sordid detail would ultimately destroy the image he had of her.

Matthew listened intently, his face betraying his emotions as he absorbed her tale. He could not stop his eyes from widening, his mouth from gaping, or his brow creasing. He kept his hand tight to hers the entire time.

As Mary finished her harrowing story, she tried to hold her head up high and face his verdict. In many ways, this was almost worse than the actual day in February that her world changed forever. Back then, she was shocked by what had befallen her, but not truly surprised by the reactions of her family. To them, she was a disappointment before Cousin James and Patrick had executed their scheme. This time, she was willingly bringing her shame upon herself, and letting down the one man who believed in her more than anyone else ever had.

"Mary," Matthew said quietly, staring down at their hands. He raised his head slowly and met her gaze.

Mary swallowed.

"I have a confession to make," Matthew said unblinkingly.

* * *

_**Law Office of Jennings and Norman, Manchester, England, August 1911**_

* * *

"Matthew, I'm sending one of the girls out for sandwiches. What do you fancy?"

Matthew did not look up from his papers, trying to keep his train of thought as he wrote out his notes.

"Pastrami on rye would be perfect," Matthew replied.

"Got it."

Moments later, Matthew was forced to look up as his colleague sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk, smirking at him expectantly.

"All right, then," Matthew rolled his eyes, laying down his pen. "Go on."

"I don't know what you mean," came the smiling reply.

"Yes you do," Matthew laughed. "You've just come back from London and you want to spill all the horrible gossip that you gathered during the Season."

"What if I want to regale you with tales of my own exploits during the Season, eh?"

"That would be a rather brief conversation," Matthew teased back.

A deep laugh filled the room. "All right, Crawley. I may have heard about a right scandal while I was at Wimbledon watching Tony Wilding put the boots to Barrett."

Matthew was about to say he wasn't interested but it was too late.

"The talk was about this girl or that and who would be the belle of the ball. You know, the usual talk. But there was this one story about a lass who had her debut last year. Seems that she was juggling a few different blokes for months, not actually committing to any of them, playing them for fools."

"So she was evaluating her options then?" Matthew asked.

"Sounds like she was, yeah."

"So doing nothing different than all the men who swoop in looking to claim a prize?" Matthew smirked.

"Here we go! Matthew Crawley, champion of the downtrodden has arrived! All quiet now!" came the reply, accompanied by a rap of knuckles on the table.

"From what I heard, she was evaluating a fair number of options, actually."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, rumour was that she wasn't content with a few toffs and noblemen. She tried out a foreigner too, but not for his prospects as a husband."

Matthew frowned. He expected a crass tale, but that did not make the suggestion any more palatable.

"This lady had the nerve to invite a Turk, or all men, to her bed, right under her father's roof, and put him through his paces."

"What is a Turk doing in London?" Matthew asked.

"He was some diplomat, visiting for some secret government business. It didn't happen in London. Was on one of those fancy country estates. You know, plenty of secret corridors and hidden rooms to make it easy to facilitate a late night romp."

"I hardly think that a debutante would risk her reputation for a brief moment of pleasure," Matthew retorted, blushing slightly. "And I do truly hope that I do not need to explain to you how easily she would be found out by her eventual husband."

"Matthew, Matthew, how can you be so naïve? A little blood and some theatrics and the poor soul would be none the wiser. Anyway, she got caught, practically in the throes from what I hear. And that was the end of her. Family kicked her out, shipped her off to America, never to be seen again."

"That sounds rather harsh," Matthew said. "Of course her prospects would essentially be ruined among that group of people, but to banish her entirely? Surely she's worth more than just her virtue?"

"Maybe to someone with no scruples," he huffed. "But come on, Matthew. That type of reputation doesn't just disappear. They called her the Yorkshire Slut for Christ's sake! How could any man ever trust someone who would do something like that? Or, how could anyone show their face in public with her? Be seen with her? May as well marry a prostitute!"

"This isn't the Middle Ages," Matthew rolled his eyes. "I agree that it would be very difficult to look past such an incident, but I would hope that any person is more than just the measure of one mistake."

"You show me the man who could take jokes about his wife spreading her legs for some Turk and I'll show you a right bloody fool."

"In the end it's just gossip, you know. It's just what someone heard about her from someone else. We lawyers call that hearsay, and it's entirely inadmissible," Matthew smiled.

"Inadmissible in a court of law. In the court of those stuck up toffs, she's already been declared guilty and sentenced."

"Well that's rather convenient for them. Let me guess, you never even learned her name, did you?" Matthew asked.

"No. I think it's known but the rumour's been passed around so many times that all I ever heard was that she was the Earl of Grantham's eldest daughter."

* * *

_**Alexandra Park, Manchester, England, August 1911**_

* * *

"Perfect," Mary laughed bitterly. "Even the lawyers know now."

"Well, we can't resist gossip. Some of us make our living off of it," Matthew said wryly.

"How disappointed you must be," Mary said as she removed her hand from his grasp. "Well, you've met the Yorkshire Slut for yourself now. I won't hold you to your foolish declarations of love, Matthew. I do not doubt the honesty of your words, but surely you see now that it was all based on a lie. And so, I release you of your obligation and I shall no longer be a burden to you. I do ask that you keep your promise though, so that I can try my best to build a semblance of a life here. If you wish that I stay away from your parents, I'm sure that can be arranged."

"I will honour my promise to you, Mary," Matthew nodded.

She looked away from him, the tears threatening to spill. She hated being proven right. She could never blame Matthew for his rebuke. Even losing him now, though heartbreaking, was still softened somewhat by the blissful months they'd spent together. She didn't deserve even that much happiness, and so she should feel lucky that she at least stole those moments from him.

She gasped as she felt his hand on hers, warm and soothing, his thumb rubbing over knuckles.

"Matthew?" she breathed, staring wide eyed at his face.

He smiled.

"I believe that I've won our bet, my Lady," Matthew grinned. "And as your punishment, you shall not be rid of me so easily."

"What? But…" Mary blurted out.

"I am certain of nothing but of the holiness of the heart's affections and the truth of imagination. What the imagination seizes as beauty must be truth – whether it existed or not – for I have the same idea of all our passions as of love: they are all, in their sublime, creative of essential beauty," he said softly.

"Keats," Mary whispered.

"Who did I flirt with at the hospital, Mary? Who did I spontaneously join for tea? Who did I lead into the creek? Who did I cause an unfortunate rash to? Who did I take to the theatre? Who did I shop for? Who has dined with my parents? Who have I kissed again and again, and who do I dream about, long after we have parted?" Matthew smiled.

Mary's mouth fell open and she closed it quickly, her free hand moving to cover her impropriety.

"Tell me, please," Matthew asked nervously. "Have you thought of any man, any other man at all, since the day we met, and all the months since?"

Mary blinked. "No," she shook her head.

Matthew smiled anew.

"I'm not giving up and I'm not disappointed in you," he declared.

"Matthew, you can't possibly think that…" Mary interjected.

"Mary," Matthew retorted. "Would you ever consider… well, could you try and perhaps…see a life for yourself with me, if I asked you?"

"Oh, Matthew, you don't mean that," Mary said although she didn't try to remove her hand again. "You're just taking pity on me. You're a wonderful man, but terribly naïve I'm afraid. You know now I carry more baggage than the porters at King's Cross. And what about Mr. Pamuk? Won't you conjure him every time we argue?"

"No," Matthew said immediately. "I have no interest in him. And I give you my solemn vow that I would never use him against you."

Mary was stunned. Her mind raced, reaching for another argument, another reason to give him to run away from her. She had nothing left. She had told him her darkest secret, the very reason why she was in Manchester, the basis upon which she had been driven from her home, had her life taken away from her. He had listened attentively, absorbed it all, and somehow cast it aside.

She was beginning to wonder who was the bigger lost cause – her, or him?

"Then you've forgiven me?" She dared, chastising herself at the same time for the growing flicker of hope stirring with her.

"No," Matthew said seriously. "You've misunderstood me. I haven't forgiven you."

Mary drew in a sharp breath of air. Of course not. She was a fool.

"Well then," she said resignedly.

Matthew squeezed her hand, drawing her attention.

"I haven't forgiven you," he continued warmly. "Because I don't believe you need my forgiveness. Mary, these past months with you have been indescribable. I never knew it was possible to love someone the way that I love you. Whatever happened to you before, whatever life you've lived until now isn't important to me. What matters is that now it's time we lived our lives together."

"You're mad!" Mary almost shouted, but she was powerless to stop the small smile creeping across her face.

"Marriage is a long business, Matthew, especially being married to me. You know that I'll ask a great deal of you, a great deal that I have no right to ask, and that you have no need to give. Are you sure about what you're saying?" Mary said.

"I am sure," Matthew said. There was his damn smile again!

"I wish I had your courage. The truth is that I don't know if I can marry anyone, Matthew. I...I need time to think about this," Mary pleaded. She could not think properly. He still loved her…somehow. She should be leaping at his offer and to hell with her family, with James and Patrick, with Society and gossip and all of it. But, if her story had reached Manchester, then the situation was more dire than she thought. How could she in good conscience take advantage of Matthew knowing this?

"Take all the time you wish, my darling," Matthew said, and she could not help but share his smile, or squeeze his hand in silent thanks.

"I'm happy to be your suitor for now; until you are convinced I may be something else," he said firmly.

* * *

_**Manchester Royal Infirmary, Manchester, England, October 1911**_

* * *

"Support the liberal government in their policy of social reform!" cried the man passing out leaflets. He stood with a small pack of other men. They seemed passive enough until Matthew refused the paper that was being thrust at him.

"No, thank you," Matthew said politely. "You've already got my support," he added, trying to appease the man. Matthew simply desired admittance to the hospital, not a lengthy political debate.

"I hope you're not here to see Dr. Samuelson," the man said bitterly. "He's been turning away decent hard working blokes as patients. Had the gall to tell my brother he was a panel patient, not worth his time; stuck up arse thought a factory worker hurt on the job was looking for a free handout."

"Excuse me," Matthew said walking around the agitated man.

Matthew quickly entered the hospital and reached his father's office. He stopped short at the open doorway, puzzled by the scene before him, and even more by the raised angry voices of his father and his guest.

"Richard, you can't honestly believe that your pocket book is as important as the life of another human being," Dr. Crawley huffed. "We're doctors! We need to help whomever needs it!"

"This socialist mania has gone too far, Reggie," Dr, Samuelson shot back. He shrugged his shoulders lazily, as though the gesture itself would prove his point.

Matthew had met Dr. Samuelson once or twice before. Dr, Samuelson had at one time been a sort of protégé of his father. However, where his father embraced changes in medicine, this man seemed unable to do so and hid behind the past traditions and lifestyle he was accustomed to. Matthew had rarely seen him down in the wards. He seemed to prefer to stay in his office floors above and see his chosen patients by appointment only.

"Where I come from in Wisbech," Dr. Samuelson continued. "There have already been riots about this Insurance Act. Common people are turning on doctors! Can you believe that nerve? The rabble is vilifying us? They have no right to tell me how to run my own practice, and yet they shout and shout, while I must remain silent? What kind of country are we living in?"

"Yes, I'm a private doctor!" he said, his voice rising. "I pick my patients, I won't accept just anyone! This Act is humiliating to my reputation! It is not fair. Why should I take on any patient who comes through the door, file all of this paperwork so the government can settle the bills weeks or months later? It's not the England I know, Reggie!"

"Then you leave me no choice," Dr. Crawley said sternly. "We cannot have doctors practising by different rules in this hospital, let alone against the law, should it come to pass, which it will. I must, therefore, ask for your resignation."

"Just like the government you so venerate, you are unfair and unjust!" Richard shouted back.

"Perhaps I am in some cases. But, you forget that it was upon my recommendation that you were brought here. And I now find that I must advise the Board that my recommendation no longer stands. Good day, Dr. Samuelson," Dr. Crawley finished.

Dr. Crawley turned his head and saw Matthew for the first time. His stern demeanour vanished as he smiled and motioned for him to come forward.

"Maybe I should have been more like you," Dr. Samuelson said spitefully. "I wouldn't have a problem with this system if I saved all the popinjays for myself as you seem to. All the premier patients flock to you."

"This is not a patient," Dr. Crawley said with a laugh. "If you had ever been paying attention, you would know that this fine young man is rather my son."

The odious man opened his mouth to speak again, but instead huffed under his breath as he marched out of the office instead, his face red and his hands constricted tightly into fists.

"As you can deduce," Dr. Crawley said affectionately as he slapped his son on the back. "I've got a bit of a mess on my hands, and I'm sorry I won't be able to step away for lunch."

"Anything I can help with?" Matthew asked sincerely. "Perhaps some legal support about the nature of the Constitution and the bill that passed through Parliament? I could draft a memo to the board and give a presentation to the other doctors and staff so they could understand that…"

"Matthew," Dr. Crawley interrupted. "The only real problem here is my disappointment. I used to know him, Dr. Samuelson, ages ago now, but people change. I suppose this is just what happens to good men when they leave Manchester."

Matthew chuckled.

"Now, Mary should be arriving shortly," Dr. Crawley said cheerfully with a little tease in his voice. "Perhaps you can convince her to break bread with you."

"Oh," Matthew said, looking away. "She isn't really talking to me at the moment, I'm afraid."

Dr. Crawley scratched his beard at this strange detail. This was a surprise.

"Don't tell your mother," he said sheepishly as he reached inside his desk for his stash of cigars and matches.

"Come outside with me my boy and tell me all about it," he said with sympathy.

Matthew willingly followed outside to the back of the hospital. He was hoping to seek his father's counsel over lunch. This brief moment would have to do.

"Mary's cross with me because she says I've been pressuring her too much," Matthew admitted.

Dr. Crawley puffed on his cigar, closing his eyes briefly.

"Go on," he encouraged.

"It seems I can't spend time with her without bringing up the subject of our future. I don't mean to give her an ultimatum, but the fact of the matter is, I'm rather eager to get on with it," Matthew explained.

"Have you formally proposed?" Dr. Crawley asked. "Your mother never mentioned any of this to me."

"No," Matthew said. "I haven't spoken to anyone else about it. I told Mary I would give her time to think about the idea of us building a life together, but she hasn't given me any indication as to when she'll have an answer."

"It would seem difficult for her to answer a question that has not been properly asked," Dr. Crawley smiled.

"I think that she knows my feelings on the subject," Matthew rolled his eyes.

"Perhaps she needs a proper proposal to give you a proper answer. Anything else is just dealing in hypotheticals, and women tend not to enjoy doing that," Dr. Crawley replied.

"You are behaving just like your mother! Oh, the dogged determination," he said wistfully. "And just like her, you need to pause a moment before you continue to bombard Mary with your feelings."

"Papa!" Matthew exclaimed in embarrassment. He knew just how long and how unwavering his Mother had been in pursuit after all. She was never shy about bragging or showing her continual love for her husband.

"I'm sorry my boy," Dr. Crawley said as he blew rings of smoke playfully. "There is no prescription I can offer you. Just know that eventually, there is no escaping a love match. Trust me." He patted his son on the shoulder again. "A person just has to feel worthy of love first. So, give Mary the time she asked for."

"Just be patient?" Matthew said with disappointment, he had expected a more grand solution after all.

"Yes. Be confident, supportive and unwavering. But do not act as though her future ought to depend on you. Using such leverage against her is not a wise strategy. Mary likes her independence, you know," Dr. Crawley said.

"But she must know that I am not pitying her," Matthew said defensively.

"Must she?" Dr. Crawley asked with a smirk.

"Well, surely she knows that I do not. She knows that I know that she would absolutely detest me basing our relationship on pity or sympathy. And since she knows that I know that she knows that I know that, then surely she must know it would never be the case," Matthew declared as though it were obvious.

Dr. Crawley looked at Matthew with a raised eyebrow.

"Perhaps a little less lawyering and a little more humility, Matthew. When I realized that your mother loved me, I was rendered speechless. And I was scared. I wasn't flattered or even interested at first. To me she was a silly girl with a crush, and I wouldn't humour what I knew would be a big mistake for her. I couldn't conceive of the notion being genuine, and yet she was steady and consistent. I was rather slow-witted in the game of love but when I made my mind up, I acted decisively. And I proposed earnestly. She loved me, and I loved her, and the rest was just details," Dr. Crawley boasted as he finished his cigar. "But, it did take time."

"Very well," Matthew sighed in agreement. "I'll give her time."

"And?" Dr. Crawley prompted.

"And…what?" Matthew asked.

"Give her time, and ask her properly, for God's sake!" Dr. Crawley said in amusement at his cluelessness. "You certainly do take after me," he concluded.

"Yes, Papa," Matthew smiled.

"Well," Dr. Crawley said as he dropped his cigar and smashed it under his shoe. "I'll see you later at home."

Matthew said goodbye to his father and proceeded back around the building towards the front of the hospital. He frowned as he noticed that the leaflet men were becoming peskier to the pedestrians on the street. They were throwing the papers at people that would not take them. He watched the way people were crossing the street to avoid them. How did they expect to drum up support for their cause by being rude and belligerent?

Matthew blinked as he saw Mary approaching. She had such an elegant stride as she walked down the boulevard. He enjoyed seeing her in her work clothing as she was plainly dressed and devoid of jewellery. Seeing her like this, as opposed to the more formal gowns and outfits that she wore outside of work, gave him confidence that there were things he could give her that she did not already have. He had only dared to buy her a few gifts during their courtship, small trinkets mainly, but they represented a hint of what he could offer her, what he could show her to prove himself worthy.

Suddenly, Mary was the only person still on the sidewalk, seemingly unafraid of the caddish fellows that were causing a stir. Matthew wondered if they had been a regular fixture on the block since Dr. Samuelson's policy had become known. Frowning to himself, he moved towards them.

One of the protesters whistled a catcall at Mary as she passed by. She stopped in her tracks and glared at them. They jeered and laughed as she moved through the crowd to get into the hospital.

At the same time as Mary entered the crowd, Dr. Samuelson exited the hospital. The crowd of protesters rushed towards him, sweeping up Mary in the process.

"Let me through!" Mary yelled as she tried to get out of the developing mob. They were yelling and cursing Dr. Samuelson, quickly surrounding the stunned man and blocking his path.

Matthew entered the fray and was jostled back and forth as he fought his way to Mary.

"Mary!" he called as he neared her.

"Matthew!" she looked at him in surprise.

"Well, Mr. La-dee-da is it? Little lady, you should know better than to associate yourself with a posh dressing Conservative like this one here!" a man said, stepping between Mary and Matthew. "Probably a patient of the good doctor over there. Thinks he's better than us! Just like all of their lot!"

"If you would please step aside," Matthew said firmly. "I'm merely escorting the lady away from here. We don't have any quarrel with you."

"Is that so?" the man laughed as the volume of the insults hurled at Dr. Samuelson increased. "Well suppose I don't want to take any orders from the likes of you?"

Instead of trying to wrestle past the man and get to Mary, Matthew instead moved deftly for the latch on the man's overalls.

"What the…" the protestor cried as suddenly his britches were falling down. In his confusion, he tripped and fell forward into some of his cohorts.

"Right this way, my Lady," Matthew said quietly as he pulled her towards him. She slid into his arms and swiftly matched his stride. They easily extricated themselves from the crowd and crossed the street to the safety of the far side.

Matthew didn't pay attention to the rest of the commotion, and ultimately Dr. Samuelson escaped amid a flurry of leaflets. Matthew was too busy staring at Mary, and she at him. Her whole face was flushed from the encounter, and her breathing was quick. Her hair was slightly falling out of its pins. Matthew carefully reached up and tucked a loose strand back behind her ear.

"How did you know to do that?" Mary asked her eyes wide. "I thought you were going to punch him in the face."

"I wanted to, truly," Matthew sighed. "But you might have been hurt or fallen in the aftermath, so the easiest way to get him out of our way was to take a more creative approach."

"You're bleeding!" Mary cried, noticing the blood on Matthew's hand. She took his handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and wiped it, lifting his hand and examining it.

"It's just a small cut, Mary," Matthew smiled. "Probably from all the leaflets that were whizzing about."

"This is much deeper than a simple paper cut!" Mary frowned, wiping his hand again and squeezing it until she was satisfied the blood had stopped flowing and clotted sufficiently. "There. But you should put a bandage on it soon."

"Very well done, Nurse Crawley," Matthew smiled.

Mary shook her head at him. "I'm just a nurse's assistant," she corrected him.

"You're my Florence Nightingale," Matthew smiled.

"You really didn't care about what would happen to you, did you?" she asked quietly. "You fought your way through that mob just to get to me?"

"Of course!" Matthew frowned. "Mary, darling, I couldn't just leave you to fend for yourself. I had to protect you."

"I don't need protection, Matthew!" Mary said coldly. "I didn't tell you my secret because I want your sympathy! I'm not weak, you know!"

"I know, Mary," Matthew nodded, holding up his hands in truce. "You're strong. You've survived more hardship in one year than I have endured in my entire life. I know that you don't need my help. I just…I just want to give it to you, without conditions. It's not that I think you need it, or that I expect you to give me anything in return. It isn't a sign of weakness to accept help, Mary. And I don't give you my attention or anything else because I think you're weak. I was just hoping that, regardless of anything else, you might want me…erm, want my help, that is."

Mary blinked several times.

"You think me strong?" she asked.

"You're an irresistible force, Mary," Matthew said quietly.

Mary took a deep breath.

"And despite all the…conditions…that I told you about before, everything that I told you that you would need to endure if we were to have a future together, you're still here?" she asked.

"Yes, Mary," Matthew nodded. "For as long as you need."

"You know that…that hypothetical question that you asked me?" she said. "You must say it properly. I won't answer unless you kneel down and everything."

Matthew frowned, and then shook himself, not daring to pass up this opportunity by asking too many questions. He looked around, then quickly turned and escorted her around the building, away from passers by and prying eyes.

Glancing about and ensuring they were in a secluded area, Matthew kneeled down on the ground and took Mary's hands in his.

"Lady Mary Crawley," he smiled at her. "Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

"Yes!" Mary smiled. "My heroic rescuer," she lovingly chided, "Yes, I will marry you!"

Matthew wanted to kiss her, sweep her into his arms and spin her around. However, remembering propriety, as well as her insistence on secrecy, which he did not entirely understand yet, he rose and squeezed her hands.

"May I have the pleasure of celebrating properly with you over lunch, Mary?" he asked.

"Lunch would be wonderful, Matthew," Mary smiled. "And we can celebrate privately at dinner this evening," she added.

Matthew swallowed loudly and Mary laughed, following him back out to the street and towards their favourite café.

* * *

_**Home of Reginald and Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, August 1912**_

* * *

Isobel smiled at her son. But, then she turned her gaze to the clock as it chimed the passing of midnight, it was now officially morning; another day had begun.

"Not quite how I finally managed to secure your father, and yet he is correct in a certain similarity of technique," her smile was warm and genuine. "Speaking of which, I should check on him," and her smile did not fade even after her bittersweet words.

"Goodnight, Matthew," she said fondly.

"Goodnight Mother," he said warmly.

Isobel left the kitchen and Matthew took the empty tea cups and put them on the counter to be washed. He felt the familiar pull of sleep as his mind wandered back to memories of his proposal and Mary's acceptance. Perhaps she could help him sleep even without being at his side, he thought as he ascended the stairs to his bedroom.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Old Nags Head Pub, Manchester England, November 1911**_

* * *

"Already, Papa? It's not even noon," Matthew grumbled as he sat down.

"What are you complaining about now, my boy?" Dr. Crawley asked innocently.

Matthew frowned at him, then nodded his head towards the ashtray with a lit cigar balanced on the edge.

Dr. Crawley laughed. "Well, this is a pub, Matthew. Many of the patrons smoke here. What makes you think that this one is mine?"

"I suspect very few of the patrons here insist on the most expensive brand in the city," Matthew said pointedly.

"Are you going to chastise me, or are we going to get ready for the match?" Dr. Crawley asked.

"Where are the lads?" Matthew looked around.

"I told them to meet us here at eleven, and since it's now eleven-thirty, they'll show up in another twenty minutes," Dr. Crawley declared, snapping shut his pocket watch.

The waitress approached with two pints of beer and placed them down on the table. She smiled at Matthew and nodded to Dr. Crawley and left.

"Come on, United," Dr. Crawley smiled, raising his glass.

"Come on, United," Matthew replied, clinking his glass with his father's.

They each took a drink and looked around as more and more fans began coming into the pub.

"Before the lads show up, Matthew, I wanted to ask you a few things. Have picked out any furniture for your house?"

"No," Matthew shook his head. "It's still empty. Why?"

"Well, are you leaving the decorating to Mary, then?" Dr. Crawley asked.

"No," Matthew sighed. "We…we aren't going to live together just yet. It's not what I would prefer, obviously, but Mary is still concerned about…the other thing. So she insists that we continue with our present arrangements. So my home will continue to sit locked up and empty."

Dr. Crawley took another drink, contemplating this news. "She's probably right, although I know you don't agree."

"Well of course I don't!" Matthew frowned. "Living apart from my own wife, I ask you!"

"And yet you are going along with it," Dr. Crawley smirked.

"Well I never could say no to her, why start now?" Matthew rolled his eyes and took another drink of his beer.

"Someday you'll live together, Matthew. Rest assured. And I suppose she still wants a quick and quiet ceremony at City Hall?"

"Yes," Matthew nodded. "I convinced her to let you and Mother attend with us and I have a particular date in mind. Originally Mary just wanted me to pick up a marriage license and be done with it."

"Your Mother will want a lunch at home at the very least, even if it's just the four of us," Dr. Crawley said.

"That's fine. I already told Mary that Mother would insist on at least breaking bread together after the ceremony," Matthew smiled.

"City Hall is fine for now, but you tell your fiancée that I insist on a proper Church wedding one day," Dr. Crawley warned.

"Tell her yourself," Matthew smirked. "You're likely to get further with her than I can."

Dr. Crawley shook his head. Matthew took another drink of his beer.

"Now, about this other business. Those statements that you left with me last week. Have you confirmed those amounts?" Dr. Crawley asked.

"Of course," Matthew replied. "I think you gained another fifty quid last month in interest alone. I'm thinking of moving part of it out of the shipping company and putting it into bank shares."

"Very well," Dr. Crawley nodded. "I want you to take the bonds and have them held in a separate account. Something more liquid."

"Why? Do you need the money?" Matthew asked.

"No, no, not at all," Dr. Crawley laughed. "But I want the money that will eventually go to the hospital to be held in a separate account. It'll be easier that way."

"The bonds don't represent very much of the money," Matthew said. "I thought you were going to leave more to the hospital."

"The bonds will be enough," Dr. Crawley said firmly. "After all, by the time I'm gone, it'll be worth a tidy sum, won't it?"

"Yes, I suppose that's true," Matthew nodded. "Another thirty years of interest will at least double the investment."

"Quite right," Dr. Crawley said softly, taking another drink.

Matthew looked at his father carefully. He seemed deep in thought.

"Now, who's starting today? I can never get these lineups straight," Dr. Crawley said cheerfully.

* * *

_**Manchester Royal Infirmary, Manchester, England, September 1912**_

* * *

"That's it, all done!" Mary smiled at her patient, the young girl's face still curled into a grimace. "That wasn't so bad now, was it, my dear?"

"No," came the quiet reply. She looked down at her arm, the long scar still visible but noticeably cleaner. Mary placed the bowl of water, wash cloths and towel on the cart and looked back and patted the girl's shoulder.

"Now, you're all done for today. I'll be back in the morning to check in on you and clean your arm again. Depending on what Dr. Edgar says, you might be able to go home tomorrow afternoon," Mary smiled encouragingly.

The young girl's eyes lit up and she managed a cautious smile. "Do you really think so, Miss Crawley?"

Mary grinned, both at the girl's expression and her using such a proper title for Mary. "It'll be up to the doctor, but I certainly hope so. Being stuck in here isn't any fun, is it?"  
"No!" the girl replied immediately. Her mouth then dropped open. "That is, I don't mean to be ungrateful for all you've done for me, Miss Crawley. It's just that my friends are all in school you see, and I…"

"It's all right," Mary nodded. "You belong with your friends, not here."

"Do you think that Nurse Isobel will be by to see me before I go?" the girl asked hopefully.

Mary swallowed slightly. "I don't know, dear. Nurse Isobel isn't working tomorrow, I'm afraid. But, I can pass on a message to her, if you like. I was already going to tell her how brave you've been and how much progress you've made."

"You would do that?" the girl smiled. "Yes, please, Miss Crawley, thank you! If you could tell Nurse Isobel that I'm very glad to have met her, and that I will keep up my reading just as I promised her I would. And could you also tell her to tell Dr. Crawley that I'm going to read _Great Expectations_ as soon as I get a chance?"

Mary blinked at the mention of her father-in-law's name. She kept the smile on her face and nodded, slowly rising from the bed and busying herself with the cart.

"I'll tell her all of that, and I'm sure Nurse Isobel and Dr. Crawley will be very glad to hear from you. Now, get some rest and I'll see you in the morning," Mary managed, smiling at the girl, then quickly leaving the room.

Mary went to her locker, grateful that no one else was using the change room at the same time. She took deep breaths to calm herself as she buttoned her jacket and adjusted her hat. The last two weeks had been difficult, with patients and even other staff members wondering where Isobel and Dr. Crawley were and when they would be returning. Isobel had been gone for the past four days, as her husband's worsening condition required that she be with him at all hours.

The hospital seemed somehow dull and dreary without both of them there. Even though Mary had earned more responsibilities and was far more comfortable with her tasks and duties now, knowing she would not have Isobel's guiding hand and Dr. Crawley's wit to accompany her each day was draining on her. She felt as though she had gone back to the very first day that Lord Merton had left her in Cassandra's clutches, stuck in the hospital with nothing to look forward to.

Mary walked briskly through the hospital and out the door. She needed to be brave and strong and had no time to wallow in her own misfortune now. She had dutifully served her patients and now with evening having arrived, it was time for her to serve a far more important person.

She stopped suddenly as she looked up and saw Matthew across the street. He was sitting on the bench as usual, waiting for her to emerge. He was different though, and Mary's hand went to her mouth as panic gripped her. His shoulders were slumped, his head hung low, his arms dangling at his sides. He looked like a broken marionette, lifeless and boneless, and when his eyes rose to meet hers, they looked empty.

Mary swallowed and narrowed her eyes. Ignoring their usual protocol, the one she herself insisted upon, she crossed the street and came to his side. Matthew rose from the bench in surprise.

"Someone could see us," he whispered, glancing around.

Mary looked at him sadly. His eyes were puffy and the deep blue colour that she had fallen in love with seemed pale and faded. She touched his arm, gently urging him to turn in the direction of his parents' home. He moved slowly, each step reluctant and plodding. Mary fell in step with him, keeping her hands to herself, but staying close to him.

They usually turned on to quieter side streets and avoided the busy main roads of the city centre. On their normal walks, Mary did not risk linking arms with her husband for fear that someone from the hospital could see them and recognize them, but when they were a safe distance away, they would joke and laugh, steal quick kisses and flirt back and forth. Despite her insistence that they keep their marriage a secret, Mary actually enjoyed getting her husband worked up during their walks, leaving him in quite a state when they reached his home and she could escape to speak to Isobel. On several occasions, Matthew had turned the tables on her, announcing to her surprise that his parents weren't home just before he scooped her up and carried her upstairs to his bedroom.

This time though, Matthew could only stare at the ground, relying on his feet to carry him down the familiar route. No words were spoken, and Mary did not attempt conversation. There was no use trying to buoy his mood now. She would need all of her energy for later, as she knew that their world would fall apart when they reached his parents' home. It was clear in Matthew's defeated expression and posture, and really this sense of dread that she felt had been building increasingly over the past week. The sad reality was upon them. The horrible moment had arrived.

They would lose Dr. Crawley tonight.

* * *

_**Home of Reginald and Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, September 1912**_

* * *

"Tell me about your home."

Mary frowned in surprise, looking from her book to Dr. Crawley. She was sitting with him while Isobel was downstairs speaking to Mrs. Bird about lunch.

"You're supposed to be napping until luncheon," Mary replied.

"Well I am awake at the moment. If you're going to be my substituted nursemaid, then you're going to have to humour me from time to time, Mary," Dr. Crawley smirked, his eyes still closed.

Mary was working the afternoon shift at the hospital today, which gave her the morning to spend with Isobel and Dr. Crawley. She had been spending most of her waking hours here since learning of Dr. Crawley's diagnosis. No one at Lady Philomena's home knew her schedule, so it seemed perfectly normal when Mary left early in the morning and returned after dinner. They all assumed she was at work the entire time.

On the mornings she could spare, she made sure to arrive before Matthew left for the office. Matthew was keeping shorter hours anyway, but she wanted to see him off when she could just the same. This morning, Matthew greeted her in the front hall, and once Davis had left, he pulled her into a fierce kiss, embracing her tightly to him. She returned his fervour and clutched him close to her, opening her mouth to allow his tongue access. She was no longer shocked at his behaviour. Matthew slept fitfully these days, and he refused to admit to his parents how he dreaded waking up each morning to some worse news about his father. Seeing Mary gave him an outlet, a way to pour his anger and despair and frustration out through his passion, a way for him to feel something besides the numbness of his pending loss. He would finally pull back, apologizing again and again for his conduct, and Mary would caress his face, kissing him chastely several times, telling him it was all right before he escorted her through to have breakfast.

"Lady Philomena's house is quite nice, actually," Mary said coldly. "The décor is rather old and not to my taste, but it suits her."

"I didn't mean your boarding house," Dr. Crawley huffed. "Tell me about your _home_, Mary."

Mary glared at him, his closed eyes and smug expression making her angry. He loved teasing all of them, as though it was his last indulgence, his last weapon to assert his place as head of the family, his wit the only means left for him to feel normal.

"You know it's not my home anymore," Mary retorted.

"Well, seeing as you won't move in with my son, and Lady Philomena's is but a temporary residence, I'm afraid that Yorkshire has to remain on the list somewhere," Dr. Crawley replied easily.

Mary sighed, rolling her eyes and closing her book. Dr. Crawley could be almost as infuriating as his son.

"Fine. What do you want to know?" she surrendered.

"I expect it's a rather large house," Dr. Crawley began.

"It is. One of the oldest homes in Yorkshire," Mary answered. She recited facts and figures about Downton Abbey, still stamped on her brain from hours of being drilled on how to properly present her home when meeting with suitors.

"Where did you play as a girl?" Dr. Crawley asked quietly.

Mary swallowed, her eyes widening. "I used to ride horses," she said softly.

"And what was your horse's name?"

"Diamond. He's adorable. Always does what I tell him, and hates anyone else to take him out besides me. He even tried to throw Lynch, our stable man once," Mary smirked.

"Did you go riding with your sisters?"

"On occasion, but neither of them enjoy it particularly. Sybil prefers walking. Edith likes to stay indoors. I usually went riding to get away from the rest of them. It was a time during the day when I knew I would be free of everything and on my own," Mary said.

"Where would you go?"

"Numerous places, depending on my mood. I could ride into the Village, but usually it was across the fields. When the weather was nice it seemed as though our lands stretched on forever. I would let Diamond loose a bit and just go towards the horizon," she smiled at the memory.

"It sounds like a wonderful place," Dr. Crawley smiled.

Mary looked back at him, seeing his eyes open now, his gaze bright and friendly, so in contrast to the harsh wheeze of his breathing.

"It was," Mary nodded. "The land has always been like a piece of Heaven. It's the people who turned it into something else."

"You must miss it though, if only a little?" Dr. Crawley continued. "It must be quite different for you to be stuck here in our industrial outpost in the North."

"Different, yes," Mary agreed. "But much better."

"Mary, I know that you've tried to forget all about your home and your family. But, you see, life sometimes has a way of…"

The door opened, and Isobel came in.

"Mrs. Bird is preparing your tray. It will be brought up shortly. Mary, why don't you go downstairs and have something to eat?" Isobel smiled.

"Of course. Thank you," Mary nodded politely. She turned to Dr. Crawley, who nodded to her in thanks, and she rose from her chair and left the bedroom.

* * *

_**Manchester Cathedral, Victoria Street, Manchester, England, September 1912**_

* * *

The Church was full to capacity. Matthew expected to see many faces, both old and new, turn out to bid goodbye to his father, but seeing standing room only in the large hall was both satisfying and sad. He knew his father had touched so many lives, from patients and their families to staff and even local merchants and shopkeepers that he frequented. Matthew could not help but think of how empty many of their lives would be without his father around.

Isobel had generously told him to go sit down early on, standing at the door and accepting condolences was proving to be too much for him. He kept searching the room for Mary, even though he knew she would not appear until later. He had walked slowly down the aisle and sat down in the first pew, staring at his note cards again, and getting up stiffly when the odd well-wisher would come forward to speak to him. Looking up at the altar, Matthew breathed deeply, waiting for the guests to be seated so the service could begin. He was grateful that he would be facing the audience when he gave the eulogy. He did not know if he could make this speech if he had to look at the casket.

Mary dabbed her eyes one last time before she took a deep breath and walked out into the main hall. She had cried a lot over the last few days, but she would need to be composed now. Nurses and staff who had worked with Dr. Crawley for years would be beside themselves with grief. Mary Crawley, who everyone thought had only known Dr. Crawley in passing, could not break down. She wasn't supposed to know him very well. She wasn't supposed to be affected by his loss.

It seemed unjust that Mary's thoughts should go back to her own family on this sad day, when all of her energy ought to be focused on Matthew and Isobel, but she could not help it when her anger would boil from time to time. Because of what happened at Downton, she could not properly mourn her father-in-law at his own funeral. She could not sit with her husband and her mother-in-law and comfort them as she ought to. To all of Manchester she was merely a nurse's assistant who was coming to pay her respects along with the other hospital staff. Some would believe she was only here out of respect for Isobel, who she worked with from time to time. Others may have the gall to think she was here because she wanted to shirk her duties and take advantage of the time off. Mary steeled herself moved towards her seat. She had chosen the direction her life was on now, and there was no time to care about what others thought about her anymore.

As she walked behind the last row of pews towards the far aisle, she noticed several latecomers standing at the back of the Church. She was somewhat glad to see such a large turnout. It seemed fitting that even the Cathedral could not contain all of Dr. Crawley's friends and admirers. It was somehow fitting, a man who cared not about popularity or accolades had drawn more mourners than some noblemen who spent their entire lives currying favour.

"Mary?" a voice called in surprise.

Mary turned and her eyes narrowed as she saw her Godfather standing at the back of the Church with the other stragglers who could not find a seat.

"Lord Merton," Mary nodded coldly.

"I didn't realize you would be coming," Lord Merton said, his face clearly showing his astonishment at her presence.

"Many of the hospital staff are here," Mary said forcefully. "We all liked Dr. Crawley very much."

"You don't need to follow everything the staff does, Mary," Lord Merton shook his head. "Only those who knew Dr. Crawley should be here." Lord Merton frowned.

"I am here," Mary answered firmly. "Because Dr. Crawley was a very fine gentleman. I worked with him enough to know he never put on airs when speaking to anyone, regardless of their station."

Mary did not bother saying goodbye as she turned and went back to her seat. She could not help but roll her eyes at the exchange, and she took a small amount of satisfaction in knowing she had a seat in the Church while the distinguished Lord Merton had to stand at the back. She put her Godfather out of her mind and focused on Matthew, sitting several rows ahead of her. As she looked at him, he turned his head and looked back at her out of the corner of his eye.

Mary smiled. Matthew nodded and looked back to the altar.

The Bishop called for attention as the service began.

* * *

_**Home of Reginald and Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, September 1912**_

* * *

Matthew's grip on Mary's hand was firm and unrelenting. He had reached for it as they approached his parents' home and did not let go. She stood close by his side, every step seeming to take greater effort, every movement becoming laboured as they approached the door.

Davis directed them upstairs. They went to his parents' bedroom, and Isobel met them in the hallway. She had obviously been crying, her eyes were red and wet. She nodded to them, then walked briskly past them and went back downstairs. Mary watched her go and sighed in regret. Isobel had stayed at her husband's side throughout, and never left him alone. She and Dr. Crawley had taken their dinner in their bedroom the past few days so she could be next to him. Now though, she had stepped aside momentarily to allow Matthew this final visit in private.

Mary felt her chest tightening. She did not want to say goodbye and she did not want to intrude on her husband's moment with his father. Despite all the kindness shown to her, and how she felt a part of this family now, she wanted Matthew to have this last conversation alone, uninterrupted by outsiders.

She turned towards Matthew and embraced him. She felt his body shake slightly and she ran her hand up and down his back soothingly. His arms wrapped around her tightly, and she closed her eyes. Matthew's hold felt so warm and safe, even in this time of tragedy. She loved him desperately, more than anything else in the world, she realized, and so her heart ached all the more, knowing the pain he was feeling was cutting him deeply.

"Darling," Mary whispered. "I'm going to go downstairs and sit with your mother. Take as much time as you need."

When Matthew finally released her from his arms, she stepped back and moved to walk away.

Matthew took her hand and pulled her back gently, still refusing to let her go.

"Mary," he whispered, his voice choked, the tears running down his face.

She embraced him again, his arms pulling her closer, his head falling into her shoulder, burying himself in her hair.

"I'll just be downstairs, Matthew," she said soothingly.

Matthew pulled back, his hands holding hers. He looked at her, his eyes vacant.

"It's time for us to say goodbye to Papa, Mary," he whispered.

Mary nodded and squeezed his hands, taking a deep breath and stepping with him towards the door. Matthew turned the doorknob with a shaking hand and pushed the door open for her. Mary stepped resolutely over the threshold into the dark room, holding Matthew's hand firmly, and guiding him forward towards the dim light next to the bed.

* * *

_**Home of Reginald and Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, September 1912**_

* * *

Betsy, Mrs. Bird's kitchen girl, answered the quiet knock to the back door of the house. She ushered Mary inside with a sad smile. The young woman's eyes were tired and forlorn. Mary knew the look well by now, and shared a knowing glance with her.

The girl took Mary's wet umbrella. A rather steamy and unpleasant rain was falling outside; apparently even the weather was being melodramatic about the day's sad circumstances.

"Mrs. Crawley is with friends in the parlour," Betsy said with a quiver in her voice. "Mr. Matthew is upstairs. He's been waiting for you, coming down every few minutes and reminding us that you'd be coming in through the back door," she said gamely. The young girl stepped closer and whispered, "He hasn't eaten a scrap of food, Lady Mary."

Mary looked at the vast selection of baked goods and other such comforting dishes that Mrs. Bird had been churning out. She watched as the cook paced nervously in front of the oven. Everyone seemed to be walking on eggshells. Mary nodded sympathetically. She took a few pastries and sandwiches on a plate and went up the back stairs, deliberately avoiding the front of the house where others could see her.

As she reached the second floor she walked briskly towards Matthew's bedroom. She paused along the west wall, as several photographs were hung amongst a large oil painting of the family. Mary had always thought it rather odd that these were displayed in a private wing of the home, rather than in the parlour or library where they would be visible to guests. By contrast, an entire room of Downton Abbey was dominated by the large portraits of the past Earls of Grantham, demanding attention from all around. She stared at the composed expression on Dr. Crawley's face, never yielding; unflinching in his steady countenance. There was something in his eyes, a twinkle of mischief comingled with the promise of compassion.

Matthew's door was open and she saw him only half dressed in his mourning suit. He stood absentmindedly in front of the window. The rain was knocking against the shutters, but Matthew did not flinch. His feet were bare and his white shirt was untucked, falling sloppily over his trousers. There was a black tie in his clenched hands. She called his name, but he did not move. Mary stepped into the room and gently touched his shoulder as she reached his side.

"Matthew," she said tenderly.

"Mary," Matthew replied. He offered her his free hand and she took it lovingly. He frowned as she placed the plate on the table in front of him.

"I've been told you haven't eaten," Mary said softly.

Matthew only shrugged, his gaze turning away. She ran her hand up and down the length of his back soothingly. He exhaled slowly and loudly, then looked at her pleading expression. He nodded grudgingly and took up a sandwich, eating it quickly.

She continued to massage his back as he ate a little more. She could have scolded him for not eating, but she knew that wouldn't work. In the past weeks he had needed her softer side, her compassion. If only her family could see her now, she thought ruefully. Those who thought they knew her always said the same thing – Lady Mary Crawley is cold; Lady Mary Crawley doesn't have a heart. She did very little to convince them otherwise. What they never knew, and what she herself barely knew before she arrived in Manchester, was that she could focus her strength against the adversity of grief, and even devote her resolve to helping where she could. Mary noticed Matthew's gaze was now staring at books on his bedside table. However, before she could speak again, Matthew's quiet voice filled the room. The strained lines on his forehead and the redness of his eyes made it seem as though his voice would be hoarse or strained; and yet it was crisp and articulate.

"I think it helped him," Matthew said. "I sat with Papa and read aloud to him from the Odyssey. Although he did rasp as he asked me, _Odysseus?_ _How old do you think I am?_ When I first told him of the comparison….."

Mary smiled.

"Even when Odysseus is offered immortality, he is not interested; for all he wants is to go home and to see his family," Matthew said quietly.

"Matthew," she said cautiously. "Your father said _no wallowing_."

His mouth opened, but he did not answer before he exhaled a shaky breath.

"Yes, and he left you in charge of me. A wise decision."

Matthew squeezed her hand and nodded. Mary took the tie from his grasp.

"Since you do not have a valet, I suppose I shall occupy the post for today," she said with affection. Mary stepped forward and pecked him on the cheek before releasing his hand. She studied the clothes that presumably had been laid out for his mourning attire.

"A white vest?" Mary inquired.

Matthew cleared this throat. "Yes," he said quietly. "I'm not mad; it's actually a little tradition that Papa wanted me to continue."

Mary looked over at him curiously.

"Grandpapa Lionel wore it out of defiance when his twin brother died. They were young lads who had been fishing together, crossing a pond when the ice broke. He couldn't rescue Arthur."

Matthew paused, he bit his lip as his eyes watered.

"Well, my grandfather wore the vest to signify that his brother would always be with him. The white vest showed his faith that he wouldn't ever forget him. His memories would be the light in the darkness of his grief."

"A fitting tribute," Mary said. She picked up the white vest reverently as she helped him dress. He finally managed with her assistance to dress, saving his cufflinks for last.

"Darling," Mary said breaking the comfortable silence. "You know that I will be with you at the funeral, even though I can't sit with you and your mother."

Matthew's nervous tremor caused him to drop one of his cufflinks, and Mary picked it up from the floor.

"I know," he said with resignation. "All hospital staff is to occupy the pews behind Mother and myself."

"So, I will be behind you," Mary said gently as she stroked his back again. She then fussed with the knot in his tie.

Matthew nodded glumly.

"I wish you could sit next to me, where you belong," Matthew said quietly.

"I wish it too," Mary replied.

Matthew went back to finishing his cuffs. Now was not the time to talk about what was to come for them, though he found that he was thinking of his father's instructions constantly.

"Have you finished the eulogy?" She asked, helping him with the pocket watch as the chain was tangled.

"I'm still not certain it's good enough for him, but I have hopefully captured his spirit in what I am going to say."

"And what will you say?" Mary asked, tenderly prodding him. She knew he needed a little practice.

Matthew reached inside the pocket of the white vest and withdrew his note cards. On one side of the first one was a drawing of a cross and a patch of flowers with the caption, _Peace. Perfect peace_; on the opposite side was Matthew's neat handwriting.

"I'll start with what Prince George said when his father King Edward died, "_He was my best friend and the best of fathers. I never had a cross word from him in my life. I am heart-broken and overwhelmed with grief._"

Mary put her hand over his heart and Matthew then brought it to his lips for a kiss.

"Did you know that I once met King Edward?" Matthew asked nostalgically. He stowed the cards back in his pocket.

Mary's eyebrows rose in surprise. She had never heard this story before.

"It's true," he said bravely smiling at the memories. "He came to Manchester, to open the hospital following the renovation. The board of directors, which included my father, received him and gave him a tour of the new facilities. After the ribbon cutting he shook hands with the families of each doctor. I was so excited to meet the King, but frankly I remember being shocked because he wasn't as tall as he looked in pictures."

Mary laughed, contemplating such a scene. She couldn't imagine why his family never seemed to mention such spectacular circumstances, when they had every reason to brag. The Crawley men in Manchester were quite alien to the Crawley men she knew growing up.

"Yes, that was a good day. But, what Father really cared about was not meeting the King, but that Manchester and the hospital should be in the spotlight."

"Naturally," Mary said fondly.

"To conclude the eulogy for Papa," Matthew licked his lips and took a deep breath. "I think I will quote from the beginning of the Odyssey."

_Men are haunted by the vastness of eternity. __  
__And so we ask ourselves: will our actions echo across the centuries? __  
__Will strangers hear our names long after we're gone and wonder who we were, how bravely we fought, how fiercely we loved?"_

"I'm sure there won't be a dry eye and the Church will be full to bursting," Mary said tenderly.

* * *

_**Manchester Cathedral, Victoria Street, Manchester, England, September 1912**_

* * *

Mary filed out of the Church with the other guests. She fiddled with her pearl necklace. Her hat and veil covered her pale skin against the sun as she paused on the steps, the other guests leaving to go back to work or wherever their paths would take them. Mary sighed. Wearing the necklace and matching earrings that Matthew gave her was hardly a sufficient substitute for being at his side. His eulogy was beautiful and achieved the emotional reaction that she expected. As a result, he was surrounded when the service ended and Mary had to quietly slip away. She did not expect to see him until later anyway, and it would seem odd for her to give condolences to a man she was not supposed to know.

"Excuse me," a voice called.

Mary turned and stared wide eyed as Matthew came up to her.

"Yes?" She managed to reply, frowning at him. What was he doing? Most of Manchester was all around them.

"Is your name Mary? You work at the hospital?" Matthew asked. "My mother wanted to speak to you. She won't be going back to the hospital this afternoon of course and she said she had a patient she wanted to tell you about."

"Of course," Mary nodded. "I can convey any message."

Matthew was instantly surrounded once again and he motioned for Mary to go back inside. She went back into the Church and took a seat. Isobel was speaking to the Bishop near the altar.

Mary raised her head when she heard the heavy doors close behind her. The hall was now empty and Matthew came up beside her, his face downcast and his shoulders slumped.

Mary rose and took his hand, grateful for his foresight in finding an excuse to bring her back inside. They walked silently towards the casket. Isobel walked out of the hall with the Bishop, giving Mary an understanding glance before leaving.

They stood in front of the casket together, in their own private moment with Dr. Crawley, the rest of the world kept at bay beyond the Church doors.

"It isn't the way he imagined it, I know," Matthew said softly. "But he would have been happy to be here, with the two of us at a Church altar."

Mary smiled sadly, looking up from the casket to her husband. She stroked his cheek with her gloved hand and nodded to him.

"I remember what he said," she replied. "He wanted a proper Church wedding for us someday."

Mary smiled, looking back at the casket.

"He loved you, you know," Matthew said firmly. "I think if we had ever fallen out, he probably would have disowned me and kept you."

Mary chuckled sadly, shaking her head. "He loved me for your sake. He cared about your happiness and it was enough for him to accept me to know that I made you happy somehow."

She turned and embraced Matthew. He had to move his head around the brim of her hat, but he didn't mind.

"You do," he whispered. "I don't think I could have survived these past weeks alone."

"You're never alone," Mary whispered, running her hands across his back. "I'm never letting you go, darling."

Matthew seemed to sag against her and she held him, whispering her love to him gently. He sobbed quietly into her shoulder.

Despite the heartbreaking loss of their patriarch and the biggest supporter of their marriage, Mary said a silent prayer of thanks that she could be here to support Matthew and have one last private moment with her family.


	11. Chapter 11

_**Home of Lady Philomena Grey, Manchester, England, October 1912.**_

* * *

Mary stirred her tea. Her eyes looked blankly at the kitchen counter top. She came downstairs to pour herself a cup, then disappear back to the attic. She found she enjoyed the kitchen. It was usually empty as Lady Philomena's servants only busied themselves around meal times, and on days like today, when Lady Philomena was scheduled to take luncheon out with friends, the kitchen was a quiet sanctuary.

"Lady Mary," a voice called.

Mary frowned and slowly turned. She wondered for a second if another woman named Mary had moved into the home. Surely no one would deliberately address her by name, and most definitely the woman standing in the doorway would not do so for any reason.

"Lady Philomena," Mary said carefully. "Hello. I wasn't expecting you."

"I need to give the staff some instructions before I depart for luncheon," Lady Philomena explained in a bored tone. "I noticed that you weren't at Church last Sunday."

Mary blinked. She kept her expression composed, but her mind was working quickly through the numerous reasons as to why Lady Philomena would even know she went to Church, and why she would bother ever looking for her.

"I wasn't feeling up for it," Mary said, deciding there was no harm in being honest. What explanation did she owe her distinguished landlady, after all?

"Of course you weren't," Lady Philomena nodded. "Weeks later and I imagine many at the hospital are still vexed."

Mary frowned in confusion.

"The passing of Dr. Crawley," Lady Philomena continued. "Must have been a horrible shock."

"Yes," Mary said plainly. She was surprised that Lady Philomena even knew about Dr. Crawley.

"I'd met him once or twice, at a fundraiser or some other hospital event," Lady Philomena waved her hand. "And he seemed a nice fellow."

"He was," Mary replied a bit too quickly. "A very nice fellow," she looked down at her hands.

"My dear brother told me that Manchester Cathedral was overflowing for the service," Lady Philomena noted. "The hospital will be full of people wearing black for months I expect."

Mary could only nod and remain silent. She felt horribly that she could not properly mourn her father-in-law. She had worn black for a week after the funeral, but then had to change to colours to avoid suspicious questions as to why she was mourning Dr. Crawley for longer than an employee ought to. Despite Matthew's repeated assurances that he understood, she felt she somehow was letting him down, that it was yet another example of how she could not be a proper wife to him.

"Well, I'll need to round up the servants," Lady Philomena declared. She turned and walked off towards the dining room without giving Mary a proper goodbye.

Mary stared after her for several moments, replaying the bizarre and unexpected conversation in her mind. It was almost as though Lady Philomena was showing a basic form of courtesy to her. Mary shook her head, took her tea cup and made her way towards the stairs. It was far more plausible that Lord Merton had instructed Lady Philomena to inquire as to why Mary was at the funeral and what her relationship to Dr. Crawley actually was. Whatever the mission, Mary was confident she'd revealed nothing. As she reached her room and began picking out a dark navy blue outfit to wear to the hospital, she reminded herself that this strange encounter with Lady Philomena was yet another reason why she needed to be vigilant in her discretion about her marriage to Matthew, and why he needed to as well.

After she finished dressing, Mary sat down at the small desk in the corner. She had just enough time to finish her letter to Sybil before leaving for the hospital. Her youngest sister was the only family member that Mary kept in touch with – the only link to her old life that still existed really. Any contact with her parents would be too angry, and any communication with Edith would be too indifferent. Mary still adored Sybil to this day, and so their letters were heartfelt and warm. Sometimes a short note from her Granny was contained in Sybil's correspondence – nothing longer than a few words of support. Still, Mary did take solace in knowing that the Dowager Countess continued to think of her, even if the rest of her family did not.

Sybil's latest letters contained news of the family's time in London during the Season and their father's fervent belief that James and Patrick would still be found, despite it now being over six months since the disaster. Mary shook her head at this information from her sister. Lord Grantham still seemed to be delusional, or lack common sense, when it came to some things.

As Mary reviewed what she had written so far, her fingers played with her locket necklace. Matthew had bought it for her on their wedding day, telling her she could store all of their memories inside it, thereby keeping him with her even when they could not act married to the outside world. Any threat to the life she had built here was unwelcome. She longed to hear that her cousins had survived simply for her own reasons, as it would confirm once and for all that she did not need to think of Downton again and could continue on with her life in Manchester without further threat. Every day she secretly scoured the newspapers, reading for any sign of the esteemed lords of Grantham returning triumphantly to England. Thus far, there had been nothing.

When thinking about so many lives lost and dreams snuffed out when the great ship sank, Mary inevitably turned to her own personal loss, and all the memories that she and Matthew would not get to share with his father. She knew now that the real tragedy in her life had not occurred at Downton, and that if she could change anything about the past two years, oddly enough it would not be her banishment.

Mary stared at the page, her pen poised above the parchment. How easy it would be to share every detail with her youngest sister – about her life, about Matthew, about how she never wanted to return to Yorkshire, never needed to set foot there ever again. But even though Mary was certain that Sybil would be happy for her, committing such details to paper was dangerous and unadvisable. She was certain that Sybil was not the only one who read her letters.

_"Dearest Sybil,_

_As of late, I've had an absolutely wretched time in Manchester. Everything that was going so surprisingly well here has now faltered and seemed less encouraging. It makes me heartsick, and reminds me that life can be terribly unfair, can't it? Everything seems so golden one minute, then turns to ashes the next. I suppose everyone feels this way at one time or another. If facing these same emotions just last year, I would have thought my life was somehow slipping away and there was nothing I could do to stop it._

_And yet, truth be told darling, I still feel more love and support here in my surrogate home than I ever did at Downton. It's rather like I'm through the looking glass, the mirror reflecting where I have been._

_I now know what is truly paramount. I know what to value and what not to take for granted. And I know what it feels like to be valued, Sybil. I'm actually lucky, and darling, I hope that you get to experience this feeling of safety and warmth for yourself someday. The odd thing is, despite some rather sad recent events, I feel I understand what it is to be happy, and I know for certain now that we all truly deserve it."_

Mary concluded her letter with a fond salutation to her little sister. She addressed and stamped the envelope before placing it in her purse. Her task completed, she made her way downstairs. She had a short shift ahead of her, and afterward she wanted to take lunch with Isobel. She remembered her promise to Dr. Crawley to take care of both Matthew and his mother, and she thought it helped her, and them, to spend as much time together as possible.

* * *

_**Home of Reginald and Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, September 1912**_

* * *

"What do you do when you're sad, Mary? To comfort yourself, that is," Dr. Crawley rasped. His quiet voice struggled to form the words, a severe contrast to the strength of his question. Mary looked at him, pondering his question as he observed her reaction.

"Isobel ignores it, soldiering on despite whatever emotions are swirling inside of her," Dr. Crawley explained. "Matthew retreats into himself," Dr. Crawley coughed before continuing. "But, you my dear, I think you face sadness straight on. Directly. Am I right?"

Mary fought back tears at the accurate diagnosis.

"Of course, you're right," she said, nodding her head. "As a child I wasn't ever allowed to be sad…"

Mary shuddered at the memory of how this harsh rule had been drilled into her from a young age. Her nanny, her parents, and of course Cousin James all repeated to her that stoicism was expected, without exceptions and that sentimentality was pointless.

Mary had developed a hard edge as a result of this indoctrination, but there were moments where she questioned this attitude. Sybil had been such a fussy baby, always crying, always seeking comfort, and it was Mary who often soothed her. Edith had never cried that way, and Mary had never felt the need to attach herself to her middle sister. But Sybil needed more attention, particularly when Nanny and Mama were more likely to scold her than soothe her. Mary discovered for herself the satisfaction of being useful, of being valued, of taking pride in being able to help others.

"Well," Dr. Crawley said, his raspy whisper still filled with confidence. "I'll tell you what I've told them in the past, hopefully with more success. I give you permission to feel sad if necessary, Mary, and to not feel as if you must be cold and careful. You don't need my permission of course, but we never know what we really need, do we? Not until we need it, anyway. And you do not need to hide yourself, not around us."

Mary nodded and sniffled quietly. Every conversation could be their last. She found it especially difficult to maintain her composure when Isobel or Matthew was in the room with Dr. Crawley. Watching this family that had taken her in, that had rescued her, fall apart day by day was crushing and made their loss all the more tragic.

"I think about my first day at the hospital rather often, you know," Mary whispered. "You found me at my lowest moment. I was adrift, confused, I didn't even think to clean the pills after I'd dropped them all over the floor. If you hadn't gone out of your way to speak to me, my life now would be…well," Mary couldn't finish as her chest seemed to tighten.

"We can't go back in time. It is unhealthy," Dr. Crawley said kindly.

"Mary," Isobel called from the doorway. "I'll take over. Go and rest."

Mary glanced back and saw Matthew waiting in the hallway. Mary nodded to Isobel and rose from her chair. She looked back at Dr. Crawley and smiled, then left the room to give Isobel and her husband privacy, moving quickly to Matthew's side and taking his hand as she led him to his bedroom.

* * *

_**Manchester Royal Infirmary, Manchester, England, October 1912**_

* * *

The hospital was full of tributes to Dr. Crawley in both evident and subtle ways. His picture that hung with the other members of the board of directors was shrouded with black cloth, as was the clock by his open office door. He had worked at the hospital since he was a youth of seventeen, a volunteer apprentice and had given fifty years of service to the institution. A plaque was soon to be placed recognizing the achievement. Everyone it seemed was wearing a black armband in remembrance. Even Cassandra looked sombre as their paths crossed. Mary worked quickly and without emotion. She would only smile in nostalgia when she saw Dr. Crawley's handwriting on a chart or dealt with patients who knew him. Otherwise, she wanted to be done and out of the hospital as soon as possible.

When her pledged hours were completed for the day, she went in search of Isobel. She found her sitting with a middle-aged woman, clearly waiting with her for news on a patient. Isobel was dressed completely in black, with only a white nursing apron above her clothing. It reminded Mary of Matthew's white vest and she smiled at the image. Isobel patted the woman's hand kindly as Dr. Boyd approached. After a brief conversation, the relief was palpable on the wife's face and she thanked Dr. Boyd profusely before being escorted to the recovery room. Isobel and Dr. Boyd excused themselves and walked over to another hallway. Mary approached them, but stood off to the side, waiting for the right moment to interrupt and get Isobel's attention.

"I'm glad I was able to bring good news," Dr. Boyd said. "Her husband will recover and be able to provide for his wife as a husband should."

"Yes, a good outcome today. Thank you for your kind speech to Mrs. Allen," Isobel said politely. "I've grown used to you acting in your administrative capacity with the Board that I sometimes forget you're still a decent doctor."

Dr. Boyd smiled at the joke. "I try," he said kindly. "I know how concerning it can be to face the idea of losing one's spouse. When my Barbara passed, I didn't think there would be a way forward for me. Thankfully I had my work, but you know, Isobel, sometimes that's not enough. Sometimes, we need more, and…"

"Everyone is different," Isobel said, abruptly interrupting him before he could finish. She paused and smiled courteously. "Thank you Dr. Boyd."

"That's so formal," Dr. Boyd said, a tinge of sadness in his voice. "You used to call me Albert," he said. "I would enjoy it if you did so again."

Isobel glanced away and noticed Mary waiting for her. She smiled, relieved at the diversion.

"Miss Crawley," she said brightly. "Excuse me, Dr. Boyd," she said as she moved away from him. "I must return to my work."

"Of course," Dr. Boyd nodded. He watched as Isobel walked past him, then quickly went in the other direction.

"Before I leave," Mary said quietly. "I would like to treat you to tea and biscotti in the commissary."

"Not today, my dear. I'm afraid I've fallen behind," Isobel smiled. "Though we should eat together sometime this week. Consider it a thank you for your help with Dr. Boyd just now."

Mary chuckled at Isobel's implication. It was strange how her mother-in-law could use humour to help her through this difficult time, but Mary was impressed all the same.

"Will you be at dinner tonight?" Isobel inquired.

"Yes, of course," Mary confirmed.

"Good," Isobel said graciously. "Now, I know you're done for the day, so go along. Don't fret about me. And don't hold anything against Dr. Boyd. He is right. We've known each other for a very long time. But I'm afraid he's too late. There was only one man for me, and no one's good intentions will change that," she said as her voice almost broke.

Mary nodded in understanding.

Isobel cleared her throat, "Go to Matthew," she said with encouragement. "He needs you. I had to leave him at home with all of Reginald's belongings to go through, and I fear what he may have gotten himself into."

"I'll go there now," Mary said.

* * *

_**Home of Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, October 1912**_

* * *

Mary walked around the manicured lawn of what was now Isobel's home. The black crepe with black ribbon was still on the front door. Bouquets of flowers left by well wishers were arranged in the windows, so abundant they seemed to form a virtual shrine. In the week of the funeral, it seemed there was a constant line of people passing in and out of the house. Even now, weeks later, she knew that letters and cards were still coming in each day.

She proceeded to the back door of the house. Though it would appear normal for an unescorted lady to call at the home during this time of mourning, she never could be sure who she might run into, so she kept to the less conspicuous route. As she rounded the back of the home, she saw Davis appear. He was emptying tobacco from the large humidor that had belonged to Dr. Crawley. The large wooden box had an immaculate carving of the Roman god Janus on it. The double-faced heads looked in opposite directions symbolizing beginnings and endings. Davis frowned as she went about the task. The loss of Dr. Crawley had hit him especially hard, it seemed.

"Good day, Lady Mary," Davis nodded as she approached. "Mr. Matthew wanted me to clean these as soon as possible," he said quietly. "He is rather upset having such reminders still in the house. Anything to do with his father's smoking is most unwelcome."

"Of course," she concurred. She had to admire such loyalty from a servant. That Dr. Crawley's passing affected the butler so strongly was yet another comment on how beloved the man was.

"Where is Mr. Matthew?" Mary inquired.

"He is in the library," Davis replied politely.

"Thank you," Mary said with a nod and she proceeded on her way.

Mary was more at ease once inside the house. With Isobel still at work, no visitors would be coming by, and she did not need to be afraid of revealing herself to the wrong person. She saw Matthew standing by the far bookshelf along the north wall of the library. He had rolled up his shirt shelves, and there was a pencil behind his left ear. In his arms, he carried several large books, which he deposited on a nearby desk. He removed the pencil and jotted down scribbles on a notepad. Matthew frowned and his lips moved as he mumbled to himself, erasing what he had just written. Although she enjoyed watching him, Mary could see the rigid set of his shoulders and the stress of his posture. He seemed distracted and agitated, the usual meticulous and careful manner he applied to any task was missing.

He needed relief.

She approached him, his addled mood stopping him from detecting her presence. She groped his bottom, then covered his eyes playfully.

"Guess who?"

"Davis, I told you, not now. Mary could come in at any moment," Matthew chuckled. He removed her hands and turned to face her. He attempted a smile and failed miserably. He embraced her and he inhaled her scent deeply. When Mary tried to step back, Matthew held her in place. He leaned forward and kissed her, his lips lingering on hers for several moments. As she finally broke away, she fussed with his hair, stroking the floppy locks as she looked at him with concern.

"What are you doing in here?" She inquired gently.

"Well," Matthew said softly, gazing about the room. "I'm donating Papa's medical books to the hospital and the university. I also want to purchase new editions of his favourite literary classics for the library."

"Quite the project," Mary said kindly. "It looks as though you have been busy."

"Not nearly busy enough to keep myself from thinking maddening thoughts," he said in exasperation. He squeezed their joined hands before releasing her. "I'm not nearly as good as

Mother about focusing in the moment. I keep thinking backwards or forwards and neither is helping."

Matthew's hand raked through his hair just as hers had a few minutes prior. He glanced this way and that, seemingly uncertain as to what he should settle his attention on.

"Every morning when I wake up it seems like the previous day was just a bad dream. My mind plays tricks on me. Father is just at work, or out bird watching. I even tell myself that he'll be home soon before I realize how ridiculous I'm being. And the scene repeats itself the next day," he sighed.

"You're not being ridiculous at all," Mary said kindly. "Everyone deals with loss in his own way, and this is yours. It's perfectly all right."

"I'm afraid when left on my own, this is what ends up happening," Matthew said. "My mind is far less jumbled when you're lying next to me."

Mary smiled slightly.

Matthew's eyes widened.

"I'm sorry, Mary!" he exclaimed. "I didn't mean to imply that…"

"It's all right," she nodded. "I know exactly what you mean, darling."

Mary turned away from him, and went to the table to inspect the books and the list he had compiled. Her hand stilled when she saw a letter on the table. It had the emblem of the Earl of Grantham, and she frowned at the discovery.

"He wrote to me," Matthew explained, noticing she was looking at the letter. He continued to glance around the room absentmindedly. "Something about assuring me that I wasn't needed at Downton Abbey as he was still confident that James and Patrick would return soon."

"For once, I agree with him," Mary said bitterly, still focused on the letter. "Besides, your place is here."

"He did offer his condolences," Matthew said. "He wrote that reading about my father's passing reminded him of when your grandfather died. He mentioned that he felt his loss profoundly."

Mary could not help but laugh angrily.

"If he mourned my Grandpapa, it wasn't out of love," Mary said. "They were never close. If anything, Lord Grantham was probably terrified that he now had to manage on his own without someone telling him what to do at every turn."

Most of what Mary knew about her Grandpapa came from her Granny. She spoke often about his strong personality and competitive nature, and most importantly, that Mary's Papa and Cousin James would be hard pressed to follow his lead. '_Uneasy is the head the wears the crown_,' Granny would say, and not entirely in jest, Mary thought.

"Regardless of his motivations, I'll need to reply to him. He did take the time to write to me," Matthew said.

"I don't think you need to respond to him at all," she said firmly. "But do what you feel you must. I won't discuss Downton, or my father. He spoils everything."

Mary looked at Matthew's handwritten notes to distract herself from becoming upset.

_Papa's favourites: Nicholas Nickleby. Kim. Ivanhoe. Collected Poetry of Emily Dickinson._

Dr. Crawley had eclectic taste in fiction, she mused. She smiled, thinking it would be a fitting tribute to re-read these works herself in the coming months. She could convince Matthew to read them to her. It could be their small acknowledgment of what Dr. Crawley meant to them.

"Mary," Matthew said, coming up to her and caressing her cheek.

"No," she said intently, turning to face him again. "We can't discuss it. I won't."

Mary gave him a loving peck on the cheek and then picked up a magazine from a box on the table.

"_Bird Notes and News_," she said nostalgically. "Oh, how your father loved this magazine. I remember the way he would bring it to work, even though he never had time to read it. But, it sat on his desk as though he couldn't part with it," Mary paused as she recalled his simple joy over this publication. "I think it was especially significant to him since you gave him the subscription."

"I hope so," Matthew said emotionally. "Did he ever mention it comes from the Royal Society, which was founded here in Manchester? Father had been a member since its creation, before I was even born."

Mary rolled her eyes fondly. "It may have come up, oh…perhaps a dozen times. One of you seemed to mention it every time we picnicked together in the botanical gardens darling, like clockwork."

"He was always so particular about certain things," Matthew sighed. He turned away and paced around the room, running his hands nervously through his hair again. It was as though he was a top spinning about, wobbling here and there, close to teetering over.

"I've got an idea," she said, trying to catch his attention. "Since you're making lists already, why don't we make one of your father's favourite places here in Manchester? You can take me to them and tell me all about them. Even the ones I already know."

Matthew stopped pacing and looked at her gratefully. "That's brilliant, Mary, thank you," he said, his voice shaking. "I've been mulling over a number of tributes, actually. I've been thinking of buying all of the caged birds that are always being sold in the street markets in Piccadilly Gardens. Papa always did that. The first time he took me when I was a little boy…"

His voice caught in his throat.

Mary stepped towards him and came into his arms.

"Go on," she smiled.

"Well, I didn't realize that his intention was to free them all. It was utterly amazing to watch them all fly away. They soared up into the sky chasing the sun, flapping their wings. I don't know if they even knew where they were going or what they were going to do to survive on their own. It was enough that they were free in that moment."

Matthew's eyes were unfocused and he seemed to be far away. His eyes looked back at her, then he stepped away. He ran his hands over his face, then squeezed them together in front of him. He turned away and stretched his arms out at his sides, his hands clenching into fists and unclenching over and over.

"Matthew?" Mary frowned.

"I just…" he growled. "There's so much that he didn't tell me. There's so much that we didn't get a chance to talk about, even in the last days when we tried to talk day and night."

Matthew reached the sofa and dug his hands into the back of it. His shoulders tensed and he took deep breaths. He finally spun around and collapsed down on to it, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, he buried his face in his hands.

Mary looked at him in alarm. She turned and quickly crossed to the door, closing it so no one would see or hear him break down. She went to his side and sat down next to him, running her hand up and down his back.

"Matthew," Mary said softly. She reached over and gently lifted his head out of his hands. He turned to look at her. His eyes were dull and seemed to sag. His face seemed lifeless, as though the colour had drained from his cheeks.

"Darling, have you been sleeping at all?" she asked quietly.

"A little," he said, swallowing nervously. "It sometimes feels…wrong…to sleep."

"Oh, Matthew," she said sadly.

"I don't know what to feel, Mary," he said, looking at the floor. "I'm sad, and angry, and frustrated, and depressed, and just…numb. One moment I think I'm supposed to be strong, to be the man of the house and not show any emotion, and the next I'm crying and shaking like a child."

"Darling," Mary shook her head. She did not realize Matthew was suffering this much.

"It's all right if you have to cry yourself to sleep. I know I have," she offered.

Matthew's eyes widened in panic and he glanced at her, then glanced away.

"I haven't been crying myself to sleep," he said defensively.

"That's good," Mary smiled bravely. "Perhaps focus on that. Focus on whatever you're doing to help you through each day and it may get a little easier."

"No!" Matthew said fiercely, sitting up straight. "I…I just need to be stronger…for Mother…for you…I need to not let it affect me so."

"Matthew," Mary scolded him lightly. "You're not Atlas. You don't need to hold us all up. You need to take time for yourself. You need to deal with whatever you're feeling."

"I don't think it's wise to do that," Matthew said ruefully. He then blinked as though he did not mean to say the words out loud. He looked at Mary again, then looked away.

"Matthew?" Mary frowned. "What is it?"

"Nothing!" he said immediately. "I'm just trying to get through each day, as you say."

"Matthew…" she said carefully. "What's wrong? What aren't you telling me?"

"It's nothing, Mary," he answered. "I don't want to concern you with it."

"I am concerned!" Mary said firmly. "And I want to help you. What can I do?"

"No, it's not appropriate," Matthew shook his head. "I should be honouring my father's memory, not thinking about…it's nothing."

"Matthew?" Mary said after a lengthy pause, entirely confused now. "What isn't appropriate?"

Matthew sighed and his head fell back against the sofa. "You'll think me horrible," he rolled his eyes.

"Never," Mary shook her head.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," he closed his eyes. "But over the past weeks, at night, it seems all I can think about is how long it's been since we…" he opened his eyes and frowned in disgust, unable to finish.

Mary blinked in realization. "Matthew," she said slowly.

"There," Matthew spat. "Now you see what an absolute monster you've married. I can't even control my stupid urges long enough to mourn my father properly."

Mary swallowed, her mind racing.

"It has been months," she said faintly, her cheeks reddening in a fierce blush. "We've never gone this long since we've been married."

"Mary, please don't talk about it," Matthew pleaded. "I can't…"

"Shh," she said, her hand reaching over and caressing his cheek. She kissed him lightly, moving from his cheek to his neck.

"Mary!" he gasped, his arm closing around her and drawing her closer. "Please, stop!"

"It's not wrong, Matthew," she whispered, her lips brushing his ear before moving back to his neck. Her hand ran down his front, sweeping across his chest. "Let me help you. Let me help you forget."

She turned his face towards her and kissed him.

"Let me help you feel like yourself again," she said.

She eased backward on the sofa, pulling him with her. His hands shook and his weight settled on her. He grabbed at her, his mouth against her neck, then her shoulder, kissing her skin as he tugged her blouse apart and revealed more of her to him. He was frantic, his hands moving all over her and his mouth constantly seeking contact.

Mary closed her eyes as long dormant feelings flooded back. She tried to remove his clothing but he captured her arms and pushed them down to her sides, stilling her movements. He eventually rose up long enough to remove his shirt, then he was upon her once more, the heat of his bare skin against hers making her cry out as he parted her legs and lifted her skirt.

He stopped suddenly, his eyes wild, staring down at her, his lip quivering. She calmed herself enough to reach up and frame his face with her hands. She nodded slightly, then brought him down to her and kissed him. He groaned and his arms circled her back. He was inside of her and it was as though he still wasn't close enough. She hung on to him, holding his shoulders and the back of his neck. Her legs squeezed around him. Her lips found his ear and she called his name, again and again, a reassuring chant that became tangled and choked as he moved faster.

"Mary," he hissed, and she couldn't answer with words. She felt him release and her eyes shut tight and she called out as she fell apart.

She watched him.

Matthew stared intently at the notepad, his brow creased in concentration. Despite how serious he looked, Mary could only grin at his dishevelled hair and how he had done up his shirt incorrectly, missing several buttons.

"What?" he asked, not looking at her.

"You're rather a mess," she said.

"I know," he smiled conspiratorially and kissed her quickly before looking back at the notepad.

"Well, I think the list might just be complete; from the bells of Manchester City Hall to the Portico Library," he declared. He tapped his pencil on the paper and nodded to himself.

"Fletcher Moss Botanical Gardens and Albert Square," Mary read with approval. "They all sound lovely."

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Matthew called out for their visitor to enter and Davis opened the door.

"Dinner is served," he said astutely with a small nod.

"Mother must be finally home," Matthew said, rising from the sofa.

"Then you had best fix your clothes," Mary smiled. "Unless you want her to suspect what we've been up to in here."

"What we've been up to is none of her business," Matthew smiled, leaning down and kissing her. "And no matter how sordid it was, it helped me, and I love you for pitying me."

"What makes you think that I gained nothing from it?" she looked at him pointedly, before looking away and blushing at the fresh memory of what they'd done, and what he'd done to her after they'd recovered their strength as well.

He took her hand and helped her up. She helped him readjust his buttons and cuffs and fixed his hair. He escorted her through to the dining room where Isobel was already seated.

As they sipped their soup, the trio was mostly silent. In the earliest days following Dr. Crawley's death, none of them felt like talking. A few days later and their conversation was stunted and forced. Now, weeks afterward, they still were not entirely back to normal – they were missing the most vocal of the family after all – but they were more at ease.

"So," Isobel finally broke the silence. "How was your afternoon?"

Matthew swallowed loudly. Mary remained composed.

"I packed up Papa's medical books as planned," he said quietly. "He has," Matthew paused at the slip of the tongue, "He had," Matthew continued, "two first editions of Henry Gray's Anatomy of the Human Body. I think I may keep one."

Isobel smiled tenderly as she reached for her glass of wine.

"Thinking of changing professions dear?" She inquired affectionately.

"Well, I have always been outnumbered," Matthew returned, "Everyone I love has been involved in the medical profession," he said as his eyes roamed between his mother and his wife. However, then his eyes fell on his father's empty chair at the head of the table. Matthew's gaze turned sad. When he continued to stare, Mary saw it as time to change the subject.

"Isobel," she said addressing her mother-in-law. "We've gathered a list of Dr. Crawley's favourite places in Manchester, we plan to visit each and reminisce. Would you care to join us?"

"Oh yes," Matthew said, his gloomy reverie interrupted. "Please do, Mother".

Isobel's eyes watered at the offering.

"Thank you," she said kindly and was silent for a moment. "I'm quite touched. Although it's a marvellous idea and Reginald would have approved, I think it best if the two of you took this on by yourselves."

"But, Mother," Matthew interrupted. However, he ceased at the look on her face.

"Matthew," Isobel said gently, "This is for you and Mary; this is your time. Although may, I make a suggestion?"

"Of course," he said earnestly.

"If it's not on your list, would you visit the Belle Vue Zoological Gardens for me? Your father took me there on our very first official date," she smiled.

"I haven't heard this story," Mary smiled.

"Neither have I, actually," Matthew noted, looking at his mother pointedly.

"Well," Isobel said coyly. "I was very young, and I wanted to see the place described as the show ground of the world. Your father was good enough to humour me and my interest in the first privately funded zoo in England."

"And I thought his first visit there was when he took me," Matthew smiled.

"I'm afraid not," Isobel said happily. "Though I think there is a wise lesson we can take from that. As you go about your tour, try and gather some souvenirs. I'm going to put together a scrapbook of sorts, combining my old memories with your father with new ones that the two of you create in the same places we visited. He'll enjoy the symmetry in that."

"That seems fitting," Mary nodded.

Matthew nodded and reached for his wine. They fell into a comfortable silence once more. Just having the three of them around the table was a painful reminder of their loss, but they were recovering day by day and memory by memory.

* * *

_**Albert Square, Manchester, England October 1912**_

* * *

"And so she approaches from Princess Street," Matthew said quietly as Mary joined him on the bench. "Seems appropriate."

"You are quite cheery this morning," she said with a small smile.

However, before Matthew could respond, the bells from Manchester's town hall tolled the change of the hour.

"The sound of Manchester," Matthew said as the final bell echoed across the square. He folded up his newspaper and stuck it in his briefcase.

"The bell has a name, but I can never seem to remember it," Mary said as she adjusted her bonnet. It was a windy day with the first chill of autumn having arrived prematurely.

"The Great Abel," Matthew responded fondly as he stared in the direction of Manchester City Hall.

"The first stop on our tour," Mary smiled.

"The clock face has an inscription from the bible, Psalm 90:12, _Teach us to number our days_," Matthew recited the information he knew by heart. "However," he continued, "Papa preferred the other inscription also carved into the bell. He said it was more fitting for this city. Tennyson's poetic line –_'Ring out the false, ring in the true_.'"

"Is it true," Mary asked warmly. "That your father's name is on one of the stained glass skylights in the town hall?" She had heard this spoken at the hospital, and while she had no reason to doubt it, she couldn't believe he would have paid to be singled out in such a fashion.

Matthew grinned.

"Yes. You must not know the story behind it," he said.

Mary smiled as she looked across the square. She glanced at him, a subtle indication for him to continue. It was moments like this that made Matthew warm with a smug confidence in his marriage. Mary seemed to be able to speak to him without even speaking.

"Papa," Matthew started, his tone reflective. "Made the large donation before he was married and had a family." He pointed at the town hall. "When it opened in 1877, he gave the bulk of his savings towards purchasing the skylight endowment. Although he later told me he was embarrassed by the vulgarity of his ambition to have his name preserved in such a manner."

"Well," Mary said standing up. "I shall require a visit to this spectacle so that I can make my own judgment."

"Very well," Matthew said. "I am happy to oblige." He extended his arm for her to take and then realized the mistake. He pulled his arm back and they walked instead side by side, a polite distance between them.

It was only a short walk until they were inside the neo-gothic structure. Mary had never had reason to be inside this building before. Matthew explained how it was an architectural marvel, very different from other buildings in Manchester. It was unique for several reasons, but most revolved around the same design triumph, the usage of positioned windows to amplify the natural light. She couldn't help but think of Dr. Crawley as a young man as he stared at this structure, so different and yet practical. They climbed the marble stairs walking apart from each other with their hands on the opposite banisters.

"Follow me," Matthew whispered as he turned down a corridor. Mary winked as their eyes met.

They passed a series of murals that depicted the history of the city, and stopped for a moment to admire them. However, shortly afterwards they proceeded and found the window in question. Mary looked around and realized they were at last alone. She took Matthew's hand, and he affectionately squeezed hers in return. As she looked up at Dr. Crawley's skylight, it was almost a heavenly view; his name shrouded by persistent and never-ending sources of light.

_**Dr. Reginald George Crawley**_

"I don't find it vain at all," she smiled. "It's quite charming and distinguished, just like your father."

"Mmm," Matthew smiled. He tugged her towards him and she smiled as he took her into his arms.

"Matthew, we're in public," she teased, not stepping away from him.

"I'm just following orders, Mary," he smiled back. "Creating new memories, remember?"

Mary smiled at his confident tone, a voice that had been lacking from him for weeks. She took a small thrill in knowing that her idea to tour Dr. Crawley's favourite places was invigorating Matthew in some way.

They kissed lightly, and when they pulled apart, they were both beaming. They took one last look at the skylight, then separated and went back downstairs.

After leaving the town hall, they proceeded to the street bazaar contained within Piccadilly Gardens. The last of the summer flowers, as well as fruits and vegetables, were on display in the busy market. They passed the numerous stalls and stopped at the merchant selling caged birds. Despite the substantial cost, Matthew purchased every cage available from a very surprised and yet pleased vendor. Mary was somewhat overwhelmed by the vast array of animals. She smiled as Matthew identified the different species from their particular markings and colours.

Mary nervously helped him open the cages, and the sparrows, gold finches, warblers and starlings all flew away without hesitation. They flapped their wings with force and speed sailing so elegantly up into the sky. Mary smiled. It was just as magical a moment as Matthew had told her it would be.

"_Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words and never stops_," Matthew said softly, his voice soft.

"Did he say that to you?" she asked.

"Yes," Matthew answered. "It's from Emily Dickinson's poetry."

Mary nodded as she once again looked up at the sky; however, the birds were now nowhere to be found in her vision.

"Um," the vendor said as he cleared his throat. "This one won't leave."

Matthew turned towards the cage of a small emerald green cockatiel.

The bird had beautiful plumage, he noticed as he stared. However, currently it appeared to be nervously plucking its feathers. To Matthew it appeared to be afraid of the open door to its cage.

"Is there anything wrong with this bird?" He asked the vendor.

"Not a thing," the man replied, seemingly offended by the question. "He don't talk the way a cockatiel should, which makes it hard to sell. But, you bought him, so he's yours. Good day." The man swiftly went about packing up his stall.

"Come on," Matthew said gently as he stooped beside the cage. "You're free," he cajoled.

The bird continued to pluck its feathers. Matthew turned towards Mary with a sad expression on his face.

"He can't picture life outside of his cage. He never knew what it was like to be free, so he doesn't know he's supposed to leave."

He shut the latch to the cage, and the bird ceased its plucking.

"Let's visit the other places on our list some other time," Matthew declared. "I want to take our newest family member home. I just hope that Mother won't be too cross with me for buying him."

Mary could only smile at her husband's gentle heart. She walked a comfortable distance beside him as they crossed the square and went to hail a taxi to take all three of them back home.


	12. Chapter 12

**Law Firm of Sellers and Reid, Manchester, England, November 1912**

* * *

"Matthew, thank you for coming," the older gentleman said, shaking Matthew's hand firmly.

"Mr. Reid," Matthew nodded briefly, then went and took a seat. Harold Reid had been the Crawley family solicitor since before Matthew was born. Even after Matthew had graduated from law school, even after he made partner at his law firm, his parents continued to keep all of their affairs with Sellers and Reid. Partly it was out of loyalty, but Matthew suspected it was also to keep him distanced from family matters. His parents wanted him to focus on his career and his life, and did not want him spending time on personal matters at work.

Now, sitting in the boardroom and clasping his hands together as he waited for the meeting to begin, Matthew was grateful that he wasn't his father's lawyer. He knew very little about the day's proceedings, and he was glad for it. It was a rare occasion where he simply wanted to be told what was happening and what to do, rather than have to think about it himself.

"Right, well, now that we are all here, we can proceed with the business at hand. You all know Matthew Crawley of course, Dr. Crawley's son," Reid said, motioning to Matthew with his hand. He was always direct and straightforward, and Matthew appreciated his professional manner in this moment.

Matthew looked around the room and nodded briefly to the assembled guests. Lord Merton gave him a short glance and turned his attention back to Reid. A tall, thin woman smiled politely at him. An older man waved at him kindly.

"Dr. Crawley's last Will and Testament was updated last year. Reginald was rather meticulous about reviewing these things each year to make sure they accurately reflected his wishes. As sad as this occasion is, I am comforted in knowing that what we are about to do today is what he would have wanted."

Matthew looked down at his lap, his fingers fidgeting. God, he needed Mary. He felt as though he could not stop shaking. He wanted her to come with him, especially since his mother had quietly refused to attend herself. But they both knew that Lord Merton would be at the meeting as a representative of the hospital, and there was no explanation they could invent to explain why she would be at the meeting as well.

"The majority of Dr. Crawley's possessions, including his home and most of his personal effects were naturally left to his wife, Isobel Crawley. I won't bother to read out the list of items. I trust that no one here has any real interest in knowing about them. Matthew, please take the list with you, but I am confident that everything is in your parents' house. There's also this letter. He wrote one each year and replaced it when he came to see me. This is the most recent one."

Matthew nodded mindlessly and took the offered papers. His father's handwriting was scrawled across the envelope. He smiled sadly as he weighed the letter in his hands. How did one go about writing a letter to your wife to read after you were gone? How to summarize thoughts on a whole life in a few pages? His father would be to the point, of course, with perhaps some wry jokes thrown in. What was there really left to say that Dr. Crawley hadn't said to Isobel by now? But it wasn't so much something missing, Matthew expected. It was something to hold on to, last words for his loved ones to keep, a part of him to treasure even after his death.

Matthew sighed. Even the knowledge that Dr. Crawley had remembered a gesture such as this so far in advance should comfort him, but it did not. He wondered if he would leave a letter for Mary with his executor to give to her upon his death. It was a terribly morbid thought. And would it be so easy for him to leave everything he owned to his wife? For, if he ever inherited Downton Abbey, would the entail prevent him from dealing with his own affairs as he wished? Would he even have the power to provide for Mary? For their children? Would his will be as straight forward as his father's? Matthew looked down at his father's handwriting again. Perhaps this was another reason why Dr. Crawley was almost morbidly amused that he would not need to take up the mantle of heir to Lord Grantham. Here in Manchester, he could live his life on his terms and no one else's.

Mr. Reid cleared his throat and Matthew's attention was drawn back to him.

"To the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, a gift of 1,500 pounds, to be used to the education of the public to the plight of birds in Manchester, and to the preservation of greenspace in Moss Botanical Park and surrounding areas."

The tall, thin woman took the offered envelope gratefully and bowed to Reid and to Matthew. She was escorted by a staff member out the door. Everyone left turned back to Reid and he continued on.

"To my alma mater, Owens College, now known as the Victoria University of Manchester, a gift of 3,000 pounds to establish a scholarship and grant to be given to deserving students in financial need to fund their medical studies," Reid announced.

The older man smiled and looked up at the ceiling. He rose and slowly made his way to the front of the room. He took the envelope from Reid and turned and shook Matthew's hand gratefully. He was escorted out of the room, starting to blub as he went.

Matthew smiled briefly. This was so like his father – providing for those that he felt needed his help without even being asked.

Lord Merton quirked his eyebrows in bored annoyance and turned back to look at the Crawley family solicitor.

"To the Royal Infirmary of Manchester, a gift of 7,500 pounds to be invested as part of the hospital's endowment fund and used specifically towards the purchase of new medical equipment, particularly for the updating and modernizing of the surgical suites as necessary," Reid said, glancing up at Lord Merton.

Lord Merton frowned slightly, then came forward and took the envelope from Reid. Rather than leave, he sat back down. Reid looked at him curiously for a brief moment, then returned to the Will.

"To my only child, Matthew Reginald Crawley, I leave the balance of my Estate, including all assets, monies, funds, investments, and the proceeds thereof that have not been specifically granted and gifted to my wife, Isobel Crawley, should she still be alive at the time of my death. In particular, I transfer my half interest in my second home, the property located in Manchester which, until my death, was owned jointly with my son, Matthew Reginald Crawley, such that the home and lands thereon are entirely owned by him from the date of my death forthwith. Further, I leave a fund of 15,000 pounds, currently invested with The First National Bank of Manchester, to my son, Matthew Reginald Crawley, to hold in trust for any woman who shall be his wife during his lifetime."

Matthew smiled sadly. Of course his father would make provision for Mary. He bit his lip forcing himself to neither smile nor sob at this unexpected development.

"The fund will remain at First National, Matthew," Reid said quietly. "The day that you do marry, we'll make arrangements for the transfer. For now it will accumulate interest until you decide to take a wife."

Matthew only nodded briefly, afraid to say anything further in Lord Merton's presence.

Lord Merton gasped audibly, his face a mixture of shock and confusion. He rose slowly from his chair, his fingers clutching his walking stick fiercely.

"Is that all of the assets dealt with, then, Mr. Reid?" he asked carefully.

"Yes, Lord Merton. That is all. Did you have any questions?" Reid asked with narrow eyes.

"No," Lord Merton shook his head quickly. "Not at all."

Matthew said goodbye to Reid and made his way for the door. As he walked out into the hall, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Matthew," Lord Merton said pleasantly. "Good to see you again. I hope that we see more of you around the hospital in the future. We have a number of events – fundraisers and meetings with donors and such. Your father was very active in supporting the hospital, and I hope you will consider taking up the same cause."

"I'll consider it," Matthew said curtly, trying not to snarl at the man who he would never forgive for his treatment of Mary.

"That's all we can ask for," Lord Merton replied, clearly annoyed by Matthew's lack of enthusiasm. "I must also ask, did you receive Lord Grantham's letter? The Earl wanted me to reach out to you. You are a part of his family, of course."

"I did," Matthew replied. "I appreciate the Earl's condolences. Good day, Lord Merton."

Matthew briskly left the building and walked down the pavement, leaving Lord Merton standing by his waiting motor, frowning at his departing figure.

"Insolent middle class whelp," Lord Merton grumbled under his breath as his chauffeur opened the door to the car for him. "God willing, James and Patrick will return soon and he will never inherit Downton."

* * *

**Home of Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, November 1912**

* * *

"Good evening sir," Davis said as he greeted Matthew. He took his soaking wet umbrella and briefcase out of his hands. The usual winter torrents seemed particularly nasty this day.

"That it most certainly is not," Matthew mumbled as he shivered. "But, thank you, Davis. The same to you."

Matthew removed his Macintosh anxiously, and hung the raincoat on the first rung of the coat rack; following suit with his hat and scarf. It was often a contest between him and Davis as to who would reach the coat rack first. The butler always grumbled that Matthew should not be hanging his own coat, especially as he was now the head of the family. Matthew always replied that he was his own man and did not need to be coddled, especially now that he was the head of the family.

Matthew sat down on the hall bench and removed his sopping wet boots. He reached for a pair of his dry Oxfords, only to smile wryly as Davis already had them in his outstretched hand.

"Touché, Davis," Matthew frowned dryly, putting on the shoes and rising from the bench.

To say that he was grateful to return home was an understatement. Although he had always appreciated his work, since his father's death, he was constantly distracted. The partners at the firm seemed to have formed a silent vow that he not be bothered with any complicated cases or matters for the time being. And so Matthew had to sit idly by and watch as matters that ought to have been given to him were parsed out to junior associates. He had moped about it for several days, then redirected his energies into a new research project that had quickly filled his time both at the office and at home.

"Would you like your post now?" Davis inquired gesturing to the tray of mail.

Matthew sighed and ran his hand through his damp hair.

"That depends," he nodded. "Is there anything interesting?"

"Several invitations it would seem from names that I recognize, Lord Merton being among them," Davis stated. "I expect it's a dinner of some sort."

"It can all wait then," Matthew said bitterly.

He seemed to be far more popular since his father's passing. He had anticipated that he would be recruited for some of the causes and events that his father used to deal with, but he seemed to receive interest from members of Manchester Society that his parents previously did not know about. It was quite perplexing to him, though Mary was nonplussed by his growing reputation.

"Though technically you're not the heir, and never will be, you're still part of the Grantham line," Mary had told him patiently. "It's far better for Lord Merton and his ilk to get their hooks in you early. That way, they hope to control you if you ever do actually inherit, and if you never do, then there's no harm done."

Matthew had rolled his eyes at this revelation. It was difficult to understand the motivations and behaviour of an entire class of people when their conduct involved neither logic nor rationale.

"Your mother and Lady Mary are in the library," Davis announced, interrupting his thoughts. "Dinner will be served promptly now that you have arrived home, sir."

Matthew smiled.

"Mary is here?" he asked hopefully.

"Yes, sir," Davis nodded, trying to contain his amusement. Nothing seemed to reduce Mr. Matthew to an adolescent like mention of Lady Mary.

"She arrived about a quarter of an hour ago, sir. It seems that Lady Philomena has left for London earlier than planned."

Matthew nodded, attempting to remain composed. He did not expect Lady Philomena to go to London for Winter Season for another week or so. This was quite a surprise. Suddenly, Matthew did not particularly want to be at home as the idea of Mary's empty house filled his mind.

"Thank you, Davis," Matthew nodded, turning for the library.

Matthew blinked in surprise as he neared the library and heard the unexpected sound of whistling. When he came through the large archway, his mother stood next to the bird cage of the cockatiel he and Mary had brought home. She whistled gently, then smiled as the bird mimicked her sounds back in its own voice. Although the emerald green little creature still did not talk, Matthew could see it was eager to interact. Despite her earlier apprehension about keeping such a pet, Isobel took to nurturing the bird, just as Matthew knew that she would. The challenge of restoring this bird from whatever affected it was a welcome distraction for her.

"Matthew," Mary smiled as she looked up at him entering the room. She stood and walked towards him accepting his kiss on the cheek. Mary held his hand as they proceeded towards his mother.

"How was your day dear?" Isobel asked, her eyes still on the bird.

"Nothing worth mentioning, as nothing happened," he shrugged. "You seem to have developed a rapport with the bird," he teased his mother.

Isobel stepped away from the bird cage with a smile. "I think I'm going to call him the Great Abel," she said as they all took seats nearby on the sofa and settee.

Matthew laughed. "After the bell in City Hall?"

"I like it," Mary said. "We did rescue him in the market nearby."

"Well, I see no objection, although he may only respond to 'Abel'" Matthew smiled as he stared at the green cockatiel. "Papa, would like that name, I think."

Isobel nodded wistfully. "He always wanted a bird in the house, but I kept saying no. I'm almost convinced he placed this particular bird in your path that day so that I would now get my comeuppance."

The trio shared a tender laugh at this irony just as the dinner gong struck. Matthew gestured for the ladies to go first as they proceeded into the dinning room.

"After dinner," Isobel said as they walked. "I have a project for all of us," she said with a twinkle in her eyes.

"A project?" Matthew looked at Mary for assistance. "Do you know about this?"

"Naturally," Mary said coyly. "We've been plotting against you for ages."

Matthew could only roll his eyes as he followed them through.

"I thought I was the head of the household," he mumbled, glancing up at the ceiling ruefully.

* * *

They went through to the parlour after dinner. Matthew was about to pour himself a brandy when he and Mary noticed a peculiar trunk placed noticeably in the middle of the room. They gathered around it and Isobel smiled mysteriously, watching their reactions.

"Mother," he said gently. "Is this Pandora's box?" he teased.

"Be serious, Matthew," Mary scolded him lightly. "This is important."

"Your father and I always meant to make a scrapbook together," Isobel said as her hand lightly touched the trunk. "A collection of memories of our life together. We started it after our marriage and for awhile it was what we did every Sunday afternoon."

Mary reached out and squeezed Matthew's hand as Isobel looked at the trunk fondly. They were reminded of Dr. Crawley almost every day in some form or another. Sometimes, Matthew would smile and gladly recall memories. Other times, he would scowl and lash out, the reminder of his father only a bitter signal that he was no longer with them. Mary's instinct was to bury her feelings, particularly grief and sorrow. They were signs of weakness, she was taught, and she was more likely to roll her eyes at the mention of the departed than she was to smile nostalgically or cry. As with many things, she had changed in this respect after her arrival in Manchester. She knew it was important for Matthew to remember, to face his grief rather than try to avoid it. He was coming around slowly, and it was a good sign that he hadn't stomped out of the room at the mention of the family scrapbook.

"Strange that this is the first I'm hearing about this," Matthew said, his voice calm but somewhat detached.

"Well, although we kept collecting mementos throughout the years, after you arrived, living life was more important than simply documenting it," Isobel smiled.

Matthew sighed audibly. Mary patted his shoulder. He turned towards her and nodded.

"Would you like to show us what you and Papa put together, Mother?" Matthew asked.

"Yes, and I want us to finish it together. I think he would have wanted that, for our project to be something to share with our child, and his wife," Isobel nodded.

Isobel took the key, still dangling from a chain tied to the trunk, and opened the lid. She lifted it slowly, smiling to herself as though she were far away. They all peered inside at the piles of photos, papers, souvenirs and other objects.

"If there are baby pictures of Matthew in there, I will need to see them at once," Mary said firmly.

"What have I agreed to?" Matthew shook his head.

"Reggie and I kept almost everything," Isobel said wistfully. "So, yes the Matthew relics are bountiful!"

Matthew and Mary smiled as Isobel arranged several bundles on the table before them. The trunk even had jars of paste and colourful pages waiting to be filled.

"We tended to collect different items and bundled them together, to later go through and arrange into the scrapbook," Isobel explained. "I know it seems juvenile and childish, but most things appear that way with the passage of time."

"Not at all," Mary declared. "I think it's brilliant."

Matthew smiled at her in thanks. Mary was one of the most practical people he had ever met. He knew she wasn't one to dwell in the past or place too much weight on history, particularly given that hers was filled with rather painful moments. Truthfully, Matthew thought the idea of a scrapbook was rather outdated. He enjoyed photographs and even the idea of keeping a journal or diary to document important events, but to assemble an entire trunk of keepsakes was rather beyond him.

They went about their task for another hour, listening to Isobel explain what each small memento signified. There were pressed flowers, seashells, watercolour sketches that Dr. Crawley had done on vacation, calling cards and tickets from football matches, menus from restaurants and countless handwritten notes on calendar pages, napkins and notepads. At first glace they were a pile of random objects. But as they were organized on the scrapbook pages, they painted a lovely portrait of different times in the life of Matthew's parents, all moments that Matthew had never heard of before.

Isobel turned back to the beginning of the scrapbook and flipped through the pages slowly, her voice quiet as she mentioned small details here and there. She blushed at the love notes and holiday cards between them that detailed the chronology of their courtship. Matthew smiled as he saw how seamlessly the pages he and Mary had just completed fit in with everything else.

Isobel paused and swallowed with difficulty as they came to a series of empty pages. Isobel looked at the pages as though she were seeing something that wasn't there.

"Mother?" Matthew asked as she remained silent. He looked at Mary who then looked at her mother-in-law.

"Are there other keepsakes that we can put on these pages?" Mary asked softly.

"No," Isobel finally spoke. "These pages are empty as they covered the years we were trying to start a family. We didn't take any trips during this time, and many of the things we found memorable before no longer seemed as…special. When Matthew was born, Reginald kept everything – the card with his name and weight from the day he was born, report cards from school, crafts he brought home to me as a child, even notes he left us telling us he'd gone out and would be home later. That's all in the trunk as well. He tended to take some of it with him to the office. They were in his desk, on his bookshelf, even carried things such as a pair of Matthew's socks when he was an infant around in his coat. He always needed to have a piece of his son with him at all times."

"That sounds like him," Mary said.

Isobel gently closed the scrapbook and placed it in the trunk. She rose from the sofa and wiped her eyes quickly.

"Well, it's quite late. I am impressed with how much we covered tonight. Now that you both know the process, we can add a little bit whenever the mood strikes. There's bits of your time together that can fill pages and pages, I'm sure," Isobel said. "That's all for me. I'm off to bed."

"But it's still early, Mother," Matthew said, rising from the sofa and looking at his mother with concern.

"I'm having brunch tomorrow with friends, so I'll retire early," Isobel smiled to him reassuringly. "Good night."

"Good night, Mother," Matthew said, standing and nodding to her.

"Good night, Isobel," Mary said kindly.

They watched her leave the parlour. Matthew's face was still frowning with concern.

"Each of us handles what we feel in our own way, darling," Mary said quietly. "I'm sure that your mother enjoyed the scrapbook tonight, but it probably became too much for her."

"Right, of course," Matthew nodded, his expression softening. "Well, shall we find a book that I can read to you?"

"That would be lovely," Mary smiled. She took his arm and he escorted her to the library.

Kissing her hand as they entered the library, Matthew went about perusing the shelves while Mary went over to the sofa. Before she sat down, she was drawn to a stack of books and papers arranged on the table.

"You know, I think I'm in the mood for Shakespeare, tonight, for some inexplicable reason," Matthew mused, looking at several of the Bard's plays.

"Matthew?" Mary frowned. "What is all this?"

"What is all what, darling?" Matthew asked, turning towards her. His eyes widened as he realized what she had discovered and he crossed the room to her quickly.

"It's just some things for work that I brought home the other day," he said, moving to close an open book on the table.

"Why are you researching wills and estates at home?" Mary asked, her eyes narrowing. "You've never had cause to bring cases home before."

"I'm dealing with a rather complicated matter," Matthew said nervously, arranging the books and papers on the table and pushing them away. "You know how I can get when something is on my mind. It haunts me day and night sometimes."

"Matthew Reginald Crawley," Mary said slowly, her voice hardening. "To pull off a ruse, one must be a good liar. Are you a good liar?"

"Not good enough to try it, apparently," Matthew swallowed, raising his hands in front of him.

"You're investigating the entail, aren't you?" Mary accused him, her hands balling into fists. "Matthew, we settled this already."

"I know your feelings on the subject, yes, but darling it's been months and your cousins have not been found," Matthew said carefully.

"Don't you 'darling' me," Mary scowled. "I've told you in no uncertain terms that you are _not_ going to Downton and that is final. Lord Grantham can find himself another heir for all I care."

"There is no one else, Mary!" Matthew retorted. "It's me! I'm the heir! I don't like the idea any more than you do, but if I am summoned, I need to know what I'm up against."

"You haven't even seen the entail or the contract that Grandpapa had Mama sign!" Mary shouted. "What makes you think anything will change? You surely aren't the first to have looked at this, Matthew!"

"Regardless of what those documents say, there are laws that govern what can and cannot be done, Mary," Matthew said tightly. "Any instrument can be defeated, so long as one knows how to attack it. That's what all this is about. I'm trying to understand how to revoke an entail."

"An entail that has existed for generations will suddenly crumble and fall before the might of Matthew Crawley!" Mary laughed bitterly. "And then what? We'll live happily ever after, will we, sitting around the dinner table trading loving and tender words with my parents? Oh, Matthew, everything with you is so black and white!"

"I think this is black and white!" Matthew fired back, his temper quickly rising. "I love you and I want to give you back what was taken from you. I'm trying to find a way to give you what you want!"

"If you think that going back to Downton is what I want, then you don't know me at all!" Mary cried, her eyes moistening. "I told you to forget about this, Matthew. I told you we weren't going anywhere. I already decided that I want nothing to do with my past life. Don't you see what this means? If you can't respect my decision then you're not on my side!"

"I am on your side!" Matthew roared. "Mary, it's my decision as to what will be done about this. I'm the heir. You can't just run away and hide here in Manchester and think that your family will leave us alone!"

The moment he uttered the words, he knew he had taken a step too far.

"It's _your _decision?" Mary said furiously.

"Mary, please," he begged, reaching out his hand.

She swatted his arm away and stormed from the room.

It took Matthew several minutes to gather himself before he went after Mary. That was enough time for her to disappear. They both needed some time to recover, he thought. Trying to speak to her again so quickly would likely make things worse.

Knowing that she was somewhere in the house, Matthew waited in the foyer. The back door was locked for the night by Mrs. Bird, so the only exit from the house was through the front, Matthew reasoned. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair, pacing back and forth. Minutes passed and the only sound in the house was the ticking of the large clock. The servants had all retired, leaving just the two of them left awake.

He rolled his eyes and looked upwards ruefully. Panic began to set in as time went on. Even Mary would not be so bold as to try walking home alone at night, he was fairly certain, but how long would she refuse to see him? Days? Weeks? She was all alone in Lady Philomena's home. She didn't need him for anything in particular and did not need to seek refuge at his home either. The idea of spending Christmas without Mary made his throat dry.

"Are you guarding the door to prevent my escape?" she asked quietly.

Matthew looked up as Mary came into the foyer. Her red tinged eyes and tired expression indicated she'd been crying.

"I was just waiting to walk you home," Matthew said softly. "If you would permit it, that is."

Mary regarded him for a long moment, the silence between them making his legs feel rubbery.

"I was going to surprise you later by revealing that I brought a valise with me tonight," Mary said, her voice still cold.

Matthew's eyes widened. He swallowed, his mind racing through what to say next.

"You know you're welcome to stay here," he stammered. "That is, if you still want to, of course."

"What is your decision on the subject, husband?" Mary said, her lips pursed tightly. "You are giving the orders, aren't you?"

Matthew's anger flared at her jab. He was in no mood for another argument, but she always knew just how to get a rise out of him.

"I would like you to stay, very much," he said with great effort, watching her face for any sign of acceptance and finding none. "You can sleep in my bedroom and I'll sleep down here, if that would make you more comfortable."

"And what will you say to the servants and to your mother when you're discovered alone on the sofa in the morning?" Mary asked, arching her eyebrow.

"That it was better that we slept in separate rooms," Matthew said, unable to hide the despair in his voice.

"Then you would be lying," Mary said, looking down at the floor. "And we know you aren't any good at doing that."

Matthew blinked in surprise.

"Pardon?"

She looked up at him, her gaze still fierce.

"I'm still incensed with you," she stated. "And I expect this argument will not be resolved very easily or very quickly. But, to say that I do not want to share a bed with my husband, when the opportunity to do so is rather rare for us at the best of times, well, that would only make this entire evening worse."

Matthew took a step towards her.

"I don't want to make you angry," he said.

"You're too late for that," she replied, although her lip curled slightly as he drew near.

"And I don't want to go without you, particularly with Christmas approaching and Lady Philomena already in London."

"Why don't you try and make it through tonight, and we'll see what December brings," Mary said, raising her eyebrow at him.

"Very well," he said.

"Shall we retire, then?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.

"Yes, darling," Matthew said, looking at her intently.

Mary held his gaze for a moment, her chin raised, she then turned and headed towards the stairs. They went up together in silence, reaching his bedroom. She stopped and he opened the door, waiting on the threshold for her to make the next move. She stepped forward and went in. He followed behind her and closed the door.

Seeing her in his bedroom as a small victory, Matthew walked past her towards his dressing room.

"Matthew," Mary called to him.

"Yes?" Matthew asked, turning back to her.

"Where exactly are you going?" she asked.

"To go change for bed," Matthew answered. "I thought you would ring for Beth to assist you."

"I already told her I wouldn't need her this evening, actually," Mary said, stepping towards him.

"Oh? But, how will you get out of your dress and corset without help?" Matthew asked.

"I think I have ample help available to me already," Mary said, giving him just a hint of a smile.

Realization dawned on him as Mary reached him and leaned across to whisper in his ear.

_"Take off my clothes, Matthew. Now._"

His hands moved up her sides shakily. He groaned as he felt her lips on his neck. Her hands moved inside his jacket and up to his shoulders, quickly forcing the garment off of him.

Matthew's hands were not nearly as deft as usual as he reached around and undid the numerous ties of her dress. He kissed her neck and shoulder as he went, waiting for her to push him away or deter him in some fashion. Instead, she ran her hands up his back, and he continued to savour the taste of her skin, her small moans and the feel of her against him emboldening him.

Once her gown floated to the floor, he held her face in his hands and kissed her soundly. She returned his fervour, jabbing her tongue into his mouth as her hands moved between them to wrestle with his vest and his shirt.

He helped her, his arms flailing as he threw off his shirt, his cufflinks flying across the room. They moved urgently towards the bed, more items of clothing ripped off as they went. His suspenders. Her corset. His trousers. Her stockings.

Mary snarled and pushed him down to the bed, following on top of him and pressing herself against his chest. Their lips found each other easily, hunger and need flaring within them.

"We're much better at putting our frustrations to more enjoyable pursuits, don't you think?" Mary said huskily as she nipped at his throat.

"Most definitely," Matthew gasped, his hands slipped beneath her knickers and fondled her bottom. She hummed in pleasure as he squeezed her firmly.

"Why don't we focus on creating our own memories? We have so many of them already," Mary drawled, licking his neck and ear.

"We do," Matthew breathed, his hips pushing against her as she reached between them and grasped his length.

"Would you like to hear what I remember most vividly, Matthew?" she whispered lightly into his ear.

Matthew could only grunt in reply, her hand unrelenting.

"I remember our first kiss," Mary said, her lips caressing his face once more.

"I remember when you proposed to me," she continued, moving her lips to his neck and then to his chest.

"I remember our wedding night, when you made me yours," she smiled as his ragged breathing only spurred her on.

"I remember all of the things you taught me, Matthew," she growled, smiling as she felt his hands pull at the ties of her knickers urgently. She writhed against him and kissed her way back up to his neck.

"I remember when you took me in the middle of the day at the hospital for the first time," she teased, running her tongue along his jaw. "And all of our secret liaisons that followed."

Matthew's restraint broke. He took hold of her hips and turned them over quickly. Mary smiled and clutched at his shoulders. Her knickers were pushed down her legs and kicked free of the bed, and she let out a long breath at the feel of him over her.

"Do you remember this, Mary?" Matthew hissed, groaning as he filled her, his lips seeking hers, desperate for as much contact between them as possible.

"Yes," Mary gasped, her hands pulling him closer, her body opening up to his and wordlessly urging him to increase his pace.

They were frantic. They were desperate for each other. They moved together perfectly, a rhythm so familiar to them now, and yet different. They dueled with their bodies, each one challenging the other and replying in kind.

"Mary," Matthew called out, kissing her lips, her cheek, her neck, any part of her soft skin he could reach as he pushed both of them over the edge.

Mary squealed as she broke apart, biting into his shoulder to stifle her cries. He held her close to him, their heated bodies pressed together as they rode out the waves crashing inside of them.

"Mmm," she sighed in bliss as he moved her gently on to her side, curling her into the warmth of him, holding her close, his arms and legs fitting with hers as he pulled the blankets over them. He pushed her hair from her face and kissed her forehead.

"I love you, Mary," Matthew whispered, his eyes closing in exhausted contentment. "I'm so glad you're here."

"We have all month together, darling. Day and night," Mary nodded, her tired limbs feeling delightfully heavy. "And I intend to create many more memories for us, so long as you don't set my teeth on edge."


	13. Chapter 13

_**Manchester Royal Infirmary, Manchester, England, December 1911**_

* * *

Matthew walked down the hall slowly, checking to make sure the bundle in his hands had not been damaged by the chill and snow of winter. He knew instinctively the route to his father's office, and so he checked the wrapping paper as he went.

Convinced all was as it should be, he smiled to himself as he finally looked up and quickened his pace. Some fathers taught their sons how to play football or cricket. Others had their boys learn to be tough and stoic. Most would endow their sons with hard lessons on the ways of the world and maybe even the first guides of a moral compass. Mothers gave their children emotion and feeling. Fathers were supposed to focus on more practical aspects. And so it was for Matthew. He was grateful that his father had taught him one particular fact of life among many other lessons – the satisfaction derived from helping others.

Matthew stopped at the doorway of the office. Dr. Crawley was attacking his daily stack of paperwork with particular urgency. He'd missed several days of work recently due to illness, a rare thing for him and he was obviously determined to catch up as soon as possible. Dr. Crawley had a penchant for working through the Christmas holidays, but this year was different and he and Matthew both knew he would be spending less time in the office.

Everything was merry and especially bright this year. Soon it would be Mary's birthday, and they had chosen late December for their wedding as well. There were still details to be worked out, but Matthew wasn't concerned. 'Tell me where to go and when, and I'll be there early' he had teased her numerous times.

Married. He would make Mary his wife ten months after first meeting her. Truthfully it seemed they had been together for much longer. She knew him better than almost anyone else, and he still marvelled that he had convinced her to accept him, to ignore all that was swirling around her and her past and to step forward with him into their future.

Ten months. She had assured him that her kind of people usually did not even take that long. She had former friends who debuted with her during her Season who met their suitors in June and were married by October. 'Once the contract is signed and the dress made, everything else falls into place' she laughed, though he knew a part of her was bitter over the reality that their wedding would not be in a grand church surrounded by friends and family. Truthfully, Matthew was a bit shocked as well. He always thought his wedding would be at Manchester Cathedral, and not in the city clerk's office, but now with the nuptials a matter of days away, the venue was strangely irrelevant to him.

"Matthew," his father called to him, breaking his reverie. "Come into my office with your musings. You had best shut the door so no one can see your curious expression."

Nodding sheepishly, Matthew came in and closed the door behind him. It was remarkable how thoughts of Mary could cause him to ignore everything around him. Hefting the package under his arm, he placed it on his father's desk and eagerly awaited Dr. Crawley's reaction.

"For you, Papa," Matthew said, sweeping his open hand over the gift.

"Christmas is a few weeks away yet, Matthew," Dr. Crawley said carefully, eyeing the rectangular box. A smile crept across his lips. He pulled back the wrapping paper and grinned. Matthew smiled as well, immensely pleased that his plan had made his father happy.

"_Ivanhoe_," Dr. Crawley smiled.

"I had your first edition re-bound," Matthew said, taking a seat. "I hope Grandpapa won't mind."

"He'll probably appear to me in my sleep and say what a thoughtful present this is," Dr. Crawley said wistfully. "Then he'd probably scold me for never thinking of a similar gift for him while he was alive. Thank you, son," he said.

Matthew nodded. "This isn't your actual Christmas present, mind. I just noticed the spine was cracked and the cover was almost falling off. Probably because you read it to me so many times."

"A practice that I expect you to continue with your children," Dr. Crawley said.

"You can read them the story yourself," Matthew said easily. "They'll crawl into your lap and beg Grandpapa to tell them a tale."

Strangely, Dr. Crawley removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. He looked tired, but that was typical for his father, a consequence of working late, Matthew assumed.

"Now that you're here, you can help me. Take a look over this list," his father said as he passed him a paper across the desk. "Have I missed anyone?"

Matthew took it and read through the long list of names. Each doctor, nurse and volunteer was on this list and would be receiving some sort of Christmas present. They were not mere employees to Dr. Crawley. Their morale directly impacted the quality of care for his patients. If they felt he cared about them, then they would in turn care about what they were doing, or so he hoped. Matthew was familiar with most of the people that his parents worked with on a regular basis. They'd all seen him grow up over the years. Hardly anyone left the employ of the hospital, particularly his parents' department. Matthew did not see anyone missing from the list, though he did notice one particular addition.

_Lady Mary Crawley _

"You've included Mary," Matthew smiled. "Though you haven't listed a gift beside her name as you've done with all the others."

"Well, I thought I would consult her husband before making a purchase," Dr. Crawley teased.

"We're not married yet," Matthew replied, though his pride was evident at the mere mention of the coming event.

"Yes, yes, you're waiting until her 21st birthday next week. It's no matter. You've been married to her in a sense for months now," Dr. Crawley answered. "All that's left is to make it official."

"I'm almost afraid to ask in what 'sense' you mean," Matthew said pointedly. "You raised me to be a gentleman, Papa, and I have been where Mary is concerned."

"If your mother was here, she'd smack both of us just for talking about this subject," Dr. Crawley chuckled. "I was referring to how obviously committed you both are to each other, nothing more. There's no need to be vulgar, Matthew."

Matthew laughed and handed the list back.

"So," Dr. Crawley continued. "What can I get for Mary?"

"Something simple," Matthew said. "She'll be embarrassed if you make a production out of it. To say nothing for the fact that you'll make me look badly if you eclipse what I'm getting for her."

"You are giving her what I hope will be a lifetime of happiness. I doubt I could purchase anything to rival that," Dr. Crawley smiled.

Matthew laughed. "I'm surprised that you're even asking. It's not like you to spend money, even at Christmas. I thought you'd recommend a poetry book to her or something similar."

"I'm feeling reckless these days," Dr. Crawley said. "There's no need to hang on to every penny. It isn't as though you can take it with you when you go."

Matthew frowned in confusion at the statement.

"Besides, Mary will be my daughter soon," Dr. Crawley continued lightly. "I think that jewellery is appropriate. You can explain that it's a Christmas gift, birthday present and wedding present in one."

"Just don't go overboard," Matthew implored. "No diamonds or rubies or emeralds. Her birthstone is turquoise, and that's normal enough. It represents joy, love and luck. Perhaps something with a small turquoise gem and that's it."

Dr. Crawley nodded. "Turquoise has always been beautiful. When I was a young man, it first became popular, thanks to Prince Albert. That gemstone suits Mary very well. Fine. Leave it with me. Now, remind me once more when we are to be at City Hall and how long we can expect you to be away afterwards."

Matthew took out a small notepad from his inner pocket. He caught his father looking at him curiously as he flipped the pages.

"Mary is in charge of the planning, obviously," Matthew said wryly. "I need to write everything down. She has it all committed to memory."

"She's quite smart, your fiancée," Dr. Crawley said. "Probably more clever than even you."

"There's no 'probably' about it; she is," Matthew nodded. "And dare I say she has better manners and better breeding as well. I should hope to get this wedding over with quickly before she comes to her senses."

"Have no fear, Matthew," Dr. Crawley said, drumming his fingers on the desk. "Mary strikes me as one who would speak her mind if she had any objection to you. She's not one to be silenced."

"No," Matthew laughed. "No, she certainly is not."

* * *

_**Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, September 1909**_

* * *

Mary walked briskly towards the library, rather pleased that Carson had told her that her Papa, Cousin James and Cousin Patrick needed her input on an important matter. Her input. Yes, that made perfect sense. She was well versed in many subjects, and perfectly capable of contributing wisely to any debate. Though she had not yet had her debut, it was coming next summer, and this was another example of her coming ascension into adulthood. She wasn't a child anymore, she was a young lady who could contribute to her family.

"Welcome back, Papa," she said politely as she saw her father and cousins gathered around a large table.

"Mary," Lord Grantham said fondly. "Come here and see if you can't settle a matter for us."

She approached the table and noticed a map of the grounds spread out across it. She smiled. Downton Abbey was more than just a pile of bricks. It included vast surrounding fields and farms, forests and ponds. And it would all be hers one day when she became Countess of Grantham.

She felt the men looking at her. Her Papa's expression was neutral. Cousin James seemed bored. Cousin Patrick did not seem to be looking at her eyes and Mary stiffened slightly.

"Ask her," Patrick smiled at his father. "She'll know."

"Mary, do you know what this line is here?" James asked, pointing at the map.

Mary looked it over, getting her bearings by noticing landmarks set out near to where Cousin James had placed his finger.

"It's a fence line near the south border of the Hollingsworth property," Mary said easily. "It was rebuilt two years ago after a thunderstorm set fire to the barn. The Hollingsworths use that piece of land for…"

"As I suspected," James said triumphantly, interrupting Mary and glaring at Robert. "The devils extended their fence beyond the proper border of the farm. They're encroaching on our land, Cousin, and you allowed this to happen."

"It's all of our land regardless," Robert sighed. "I don't recall the fence being rebuilt, but even if it was as Mary says, what does it matter?"

"What matters, Cousin, is that everyone understand their role – farmers, tenants, villagers and even you," Cousin James sneered. "I want that fence torn down and Mr. Hollingsworth can build another one on the proper line. Or, I'll have workers tear it down myself and add the cost to the man's rent."

Robert frowned.

"Very well done, Patrick," Cousin James smiled, turning away from Mary and Robert and looking at his son. "She will make a fine wife for you. Remember to use her knowledge to your advantage, just so long as everyone understands that the final decision is yours to make."

Mary felt annoyance crease her brow. She could be of use to Patrick? The man didn't even know half of what Mary did about Downton.

"I'm going to take Pharaoh for a walk. Mary, come with me," Robert said tightly. Mary turned away from the table and followed her father outside, the family dog skipping along happily at his side.

"You will make a fine Countess," Robert said as they moved down a path around the house.

"Thank you, Papa," Mary said quietly.

"You know that your Mama did not want you to learn the history of Downton at first. She wanted a more traditional upbringing for you. But I insisted that you be taught about this place, and taught to understand just how many people rely upon us. I'm pleased to see that you were paying attention."

Mary nodded slightly, her mind undecided as to whether what her father had just said was a compliment or not.

"You're very lucky that Patrick has agreed to accept you. We all are," Robert said. "I know you enjoy teasing him and poking fun at how little he knows compared to you. That isn't proper behaviour for a lady, Mary. Remember your place and try and be more friendly to Patrick."

"I doubt that Cousin Patrick and I are destined to be friends, Papa," Mary said. "And I don't know how 'lucky' I am, actually. Patrick is rather full of himself, and he enjoys gambling, more than most gentlemen that I know. I shudder to think about what he would do to this place without someone more…knowledgeable…to help him. If I'm to marry him, I'd say it's him who Fortune has shone upon."

"Mary, that's the attitude that I'm speaking of," Robert scolded her. "You need Patrick."

"The world is changing, Papa," Mary retorted. "Why have you not considered alternatives? You know Mama and Granny are prepared to fight for me. Why won't you?"

"It's not my place to, Mary," Robert said. "It is my duty to follow the terms of the entail, as my predecessors expected the Earl to do when they drafted it. I'm a custodian, not an owner. Downton is my third parent and my fourth child and I can't act recklessly with it. The terms of the entail are clear."

Mary bit back her stinging reply. The entail. Everything always came back to the entail and how her Papa was trapped by it, and his daughters in turn. When she was younger, she had accepted it, and was still accepting it to a degree by agreeing to marry Patrick following her Season. But she found that as she spent more time with Patrick and her debut approached, she was beginning to question everything, including her father's ambivalence and the whether terms of the entail should be followed so faithfully.

* * *

_**Home of Matthew Crawley, Manchester, England December 1911**_

* * *

Matthew paced nervously around the empty dining room. The house was cold, being empty and unused. He kept the heat on just enough so the plumbing would not freeze over. He buried his hands in his pockets and glanced over to the windows every so often.

"Papa, we need to go," he said. "Mary and Mother are waiting at City Hall. You wouldn't want me to be late for my own wedding, would you?"

Dr. Crawley continued to look out the window, the small backyard filling his gaze. He did not look over at his son as he replied in a soft voice.

"There's plenty of time, Matthew. Your appointment is still well over an hour away."

Matthew exhaled, stopping his pacing and leaning against the wall. He could not help but glance around the room, imagining a long table covered with a Christmas feast, Mary presiding over the gathering as an accomplished hostess, and his parents beaming from their side of the table with friends and family complimenting him on their lovely home.

'_Mary decorated the entire house' _ he would say proudly. _'I just wrote the cheques and tried to stay out of her way.'_

'_And my dear husband was not entirely successful in that,'_ Mary would shoot back with a teasing smile. _'Which is why in the New Year, I will be shopping for a new sideboard. Matthew cracked this one when he thought it would look better by the window.'_

"It seems I'm not the only one daydreaming of the potential of this place," Dr. Crawley said in amusement.

Matthew looked over at his smiling father and blushed.

"Yes, well, I have to do something to pass the time while you gaze out the window," Matthew said.

"Just thinking about all the possibilities, all the memories that you'll create here. This home is lovely, but also practical, which was why I bought it for you in the first place. When Dr. Cavendish's son was married, he bought him one of those blasted motorcars. Entirely inappropriate. This home, Matthew, your home, is meant to be far more than something flashy for you to show off."

Dr. Crawley coughed, presumably because of the dust and cleared his throat as a comfortable silence returned between them. Matthew knew his father was imagining grandchildren playing in the backyard and running through the halls.

"When we finally do move in," Matthew said quietly. "Whenever that will be, I was thinking of getting the same bed as yours and putting it in one of the guest bedrooms. That way you'll have something familiar to sleep on in the event that it's too late to walk home or even just for you and Mama to nap."

"Plan your house the way you wish, Matthew," Dr. Crawley smiled wistfully at him. "I do appreciate the gesture, but there's no need. I am highly adaptable to changing circumstances. So is your mother."

Matthew chuckled at his father's response. "It's no trouble, Papa. You may as well have your own room here. You'll be over often enough."

"If you think that's best, Matthew," Dr. Crawley said.

Matthew looked around again and wandered over to the living room. The empty fireplace crackled to life in his mind. He saw cozy evenings snuggled with Mary on the sofa, the fire warming them as they read together. He blushed again as he imagined other activities they could pursue on the sofa in front of a roaring fire, and he swallowed, trying to calm himself.

"Well," Dr. Crawley said, walking past Matthew and heading over to the foyer. "Let's get going. I've seen enough of this house to confirm it is everything I wanted for you. Best to save the rest of the day's sentimentality for a wedding that I've been invited to."

Matthew shook his head and followed his father to the door. As he opened it, Dr. Crawley patted his son on the back affectionately, then stepped out into the bitter cold air.

* * *

_**Home of Lady Philomena Grey, Manchester, England, December 1912**_

* * *

"Do you know what day tomorrow is?" Matthew asked, running his hand along Mary's bare back as she rested her head on his chest.

Her own fingers slid along his ribs. "It's Sunday, isn't it?" she said easily.

"Yes…and?"

"Oh! I need to make sure I bring my gloves to Church. I forgot them last weekend and my hands were practically frozen stiff," Mary said, smiling against his skin.

"Have you gone off me already that you have no memory of our wedding day or that tomorrow is our anniversary?" Matthew laughed.

Her hand slid down past his thighs and squeezed him, causing him to grunt in surprise.

"I wouldn't say I've gone off you just yet," Mary teased.

"Naughty minx," Matthew smiled. "I'm trying to be serious. Since tomorrow is our anniversary and I do not want to spend the day arguing, I am declaring a moratorium on all discussion of Downton."

"That's the smartest thing you've said in weeks," Mary declared, turning and looking at him.

"After we finish today's argument," Matthew said pointedly.

"Matthew!" Mary said sharply, rolling her eyes and settling back down on his chest. "Darling, it's as though you've traded one worry for another. You've moved your grief for you father into this new frazzled concern towards a fate we don't know will ever happen."

He opened his mouth to respond when she ran her fingers along his lips.

"Stop concerning yourself with this and leave it be," she said softly. "What can I do to make you start the moratorium immediately?"

Matthew swallowed as she kissed his chest, her hand moving down his body once more. He reached out and gently took her wrist, drawing her attention to him.

"This isn't like you," he said quietly. "You don't just give up. Why have you now? Why won't you even consider fighting?"

Mary huffed and sat up fully in bed. She brought her knees to her chest, crossing the blanket across her breasts.

"I didn't give up Matthew," she said, not looking at him. "I fought and I lost. There is no point to considering a new attack or forming a strategy, nothing has changed, and nothing will change."

Matthew sat up in bed and reached forward towards his wives partially exposed naked body. He kissed her back, then her shoulder.

"You fought alone, Mary," he whispered. "You believed that when it came down to facing Patrick for what he did, your family would stand behind you, and they didn't. Darling I'm sorry that you had to endure that. So very sorry. But I'm here now, Mary. You have reinforcements. My father believed in your cause, and so do I."

"Oh, Matthew, what am I always telling you?" she sighed, a shiver running down her spine, partly from his lips, and partly from her harsh memories. "Your father gave me too much credit, and so do you."

"It isn't because you're…scared…is it?" Matthew asked.

Mary turned her head and glared at him before she looked away.

"Don't be ridiculous," she spat.

Mary looked down at the bedspread and the wedding ring she only got to wear when they were together. She cleared her throat and spoke with as much confidence as she could muster.

"You weren't there, Matthew. You didn't see the way they judged me, the way they scrutinized everything that I did. No matter what I accomplished, it was never enough. I was inferior, never good enough, that much was always clear. Why would I want to go back to a place like that? To people like that?" she asked.

"Darling," Matthew said, wrapping his arms around her and hugging her against his chest. His hands linked with hers over her knees.

"They took everything from me," she whispered. "Even now, I can't walk down the street wearing your ring and holding your arm. My own husband, for God's sake! I'll be dammed if they can now have you too."

"You can have it all back, Mary," Matthew said, kissing her cheek. "Downton, me, it can all be yours, just as you deserve. We just need to fight…together."

Mary sighed. She turned her head and kissed him.

"Can we please start the moratorium now?" she pleaded.

"Of course," Matthew nodded, touching his forehead to hers. "As long as you promise me you'll think about what I've said."

"I'll think about it after tomorrow," Mary relented. "Until then, I'm only going to think about what we did this same time last year, and ways to do it all better."

"Better?" Matthew exclaimed in surprise.

"It has been a year, darling. Surely we've become more…skilled," Mary arched her eyebrow at him before leaning in for another kiss.

* * *

_**Midland Hotel, Manchester, England December, 1911**_

* * *

"The Royal Suite?" Mary frowned at Matthew after the double doors closed.

"Is it not to your taste?" he asked nervously, walking back into the parlour after dismissing the bellman.

"No, no, it's lovely," Mary said lightly, hoping he did not misunderstand her. "It's just that it's quite expensive, I would expect."

"The most expensive room in the city," Matthew nodded, coming forward and taking her hands in his. "And not nearly what you deserve, darling."

"Matthew…" she shook her head, looking down at their joined hands.

"What?" he asked in an amused tone. She eventually brought her eyes back up to look at him.

"You don't have to do this," Mary began. "I didn't marry you today because I expect fancy clothes and sparkling diamonds and luxury and excess at every turn. I had that already, and it was worthless in the end. I don't need all of this," she said, tilting her head to take in the large living space. "I only need you."

Matthew chuckled. He leaned forward and kissed her lightly. He stepped back and took her hand, walking her through to the dining area, with its large table and elegant chandelier.

"Mary, I like doing this for you," Matthew smiled. "I know that you're used to a large house and servants and choosing clothes and doing the Season. I know that living in Manchester and having to work at the hospital and living under Lady Philomena's roof are not what you envisioned your life to be. But when you're with me, Mary, when we're together, I want to show you another life, a better life."

"You already show me that!" she objected. "You show me at every turn, and not only when you spend money. Matthew, it's not your job to spoil me."

"Actually, I think it is," Matthew frowned playfully. "It must have been in our vows somewhere. Something about 'for richer'?"

"Or for poorer," Mary said pointedly. "This is too much, Matthew," Mary shook her head. "I don't even want to know how much this cost your parents."

"My parents?" Matthew frowned in confusion. "What makes you think that they had anything to do with this?"

"Well, surely you needed help to afford this?" Mary questioned him.

Matthew laughed and kissed her once more. "Lady Mary, I am perfectly capable of paying for my own wedding night, thank you. And we haven't even discussed the honeymoon yet."

"Matthew," she shook her head again.

"Don't worry about anything, except our destination," Matthew said firmly. "Whatever you desire, wherever you wish to go, say it and I shall take you there."

Mary smiled at him playfully. Her husband was quite sweet, and very deferential to her, but surely he was merely boasting. She could not envision how Matthew could afford all of this on a mere lawyer's salary. She would say as much, but even she was not cold enough to throw out such a rebuke on her own wedding night.

"Would you like to see the South Pacific painted by Gauguin? Or the great barrier reef in Australia? Perhaps the Pyramids in Egypt? Or the Great wall of China? I'll find you the lost city of Troy or the library of Alexandria! Name it, Mary and it's yours," Matthew said, his smile eager.

"Stop it, darling. Stop it this instant. Do you really think I married you because I wanted clothes, or jewellery, or fancy trips to faraway lands?" she scolded him lightly.

She reached out and pushed his suit jacket off of him and dropped it to the floor. Matthew gazed at her with great interest, keeping himself quiet as Mary slowly undid his vest, then his shirt buttons.

"I came here last winter, all alone, to another world, another life, and found to my delight, another part of my soul. You revived something in me, Matthew, something I didn't even think was there. I thought my life would be dark and filled with despair, and you showed me a life that I did not even know existed."

His chest was soon bared to her. Mary stepped closer and kissed his shoulder, then his neck, and brought her lips across his chest with light pecks.

"Mary," Matthew sighed, his hands moving to her hips and holding her close to him.

"I don't want or need to see anyplace else. I don't want to see the world. Only you. _All of you_."

Her hands went to his trousers and Matthew swallowed audibly. He stilled her fingers and she looked up at him in confusion.

"Wait, darling," he gasped. "Are you sure? I don't want to do anything to remind you of…you don't have to feel as though you have an obligation to…"

Mary quirked her eyebrow at him, then kissed him

"I don't have any demons, Matthew," she smiled, kissing his neck. "You already exorcised them, by being so kind, and patient, and understanding, by being a perfect gentleman, and never demanding anything from me. You don't need to hold back, Matthew. Now that we're married, everything is permitted."

"Everything?" Matthew asked, his voice shaky.

Mary stilled her hands and looked up at him. She shook slightly as she caught his eyes, the need inside of him so obvious to her. She had never seen him look at her like that before and it made her shiver with anticipation.

"Everything, Matthew," she nodded.

"I…I just want our first night together to be perfect for you, to be everything you should have had before…" Matthew babbled.

"Shh…" Mary smiled, kissing him again. "Don't you dare say his name. The only man I'm thinking about is you, and I'm thinking rather scandalous thoughts at the moment."

"Mary, my darling," he whispered.

Mary gasped as he turned her around. He kissed her neck, his hands moving up her sides, brushing past her breasts and to her shoulders.

"Have I ever told you how much I admire your hair?" he said lightly, his fingers delicately moving her coiffure to the side to expose the nape of her neck to his lips. "It's always so immaculate, so perfect."

Mary swallowed as he kissed her bare skin. His fingers deftly began removing the pins from her hair. She had no idea how he knew where to find them, or how he pulled them from the layers of her hair almost as deftly as Anna used to, but as each one fell to the floor, her breathing quickened.

"I have wondered what your hair would look like when set free, Mary," he continued, each kiss a shock to her body as her hair could no longer maintain its shape and tumbled down her back.

His contented hum against her skin sounded like a primal growl and she shivered again as he pulled her long tresses across her shoulder to once again bare her neck to him.

She swallowed again as his fingers made quick work of the buttons down the back of her dress. As each one surrenders to his hands, she felt more and more of herself being exposed to him, until her dress falls to her feet, the only thing standing between them the silk of her shift.

"No corset?" he smiled against her back. "Good."

She blushed fiercely, growing keenly aware of a heat at her core that cannot be quelled. Truthfully, she went without a corset because her dress did not require one to maintain the appropriate shape. She realizes now how wise she was to choose this dress, as it has had a delightfully unexpected benefit.

Her eyes blink open as his kisses stop. His hands hold the straps of her shift, his fingers frozen.

"Please, Mary," he says softly, the aggressiveness in his previous tone gone. "May I…can I please…I want to see you, if you will permit it."

She can't help but smile. His hands are trembling on her shoulders and it gives her confidence. Surely he must want to tear the last barrier to her naked body away from her? And yet he doesn't. He even asks for her permission. How did she find him? How did she choose such a man?

She reaches her hands up and covers both of his. She guides him to ease the straps over her arms and down. Her arms fall to her sides and he pulls her shift the rest of the way. His hands cup her breasts and they both inhale sharply, the touch arousing both of them. No one has ever touched her quite like this before, with love, and she's almost shocked at how good it feels.

A smile comes to her lips and she turns her head and kisses his cheek. She opens her eyes and looks at him, the questioning and nervous expression on his face only stirs her arousal further.

"Yours, Matthew," she whispers. "For always."

They kiss and it's as though the touch of their lips washes away all nervousness and fear and trepidation and replaces it all with a flaring heat that feels intoxicating and right. She spins in his arms and he lifts her off the floor. They are quickly in the bedroom, the soft blankets and pillows breaking their fall as they move to bed with desperate haste. She undoes his pants, pushes his shorts off before she realizes that he's completely naked and she's seeing him, feeling him for the first time. He unties her knickers, then seems to have the same thought as her. His eyes widen and he glances at her, wondering if she'll recoil.

She reaches up and frames his face with her hands. A beaming smile pulls him forward and they kiss, the gasp from her as their bodies touch cracks his restraint. She feels soft and warm and amazing beneath him, and his hands clutch the blankets to stop his desire from consuming him.

She needs him close, closer than he already is pressed against her. She feels his weight on top of her, and it feels good, not at all like that other time when a rat of a man smothered her. She can't even think back to that moment, her mind won't allow her to be scared or tense up. She's too occupied processing the feel of his firm buttocks, his warm back, his chest covering her breasts and the points of heat that are bursting on her neck, her chest and between her legs. Her hands all over him, and she can't stop herself from exploring his body. She realizes it's all hers, all of him, his strong muscles and soft ticklish spots all belong to her now, and she can touch him as much as she wishes. Her eyes widen as a coil of delightful sensation seems to be growing in her centre, and just when she thinks she can't be any more aroused than she already is, she finds another level.

"Mary," he hisses and she looks at him, his eyes so blue and his gaze so loving that she thinks she might explode from his glance alone.

His weight is balanced on his forearms on either side of her head. Her hands are across his lower back, her legs parted for him. They stare at each other, an entire discussion passing silently between them.

His eyes tell her he will love her until the last breath leaves his body.

Her nod tells him 'me too'.

Matthew thrusts into Mary and they both cry out at the sensation. He goes agonizingly slow at first, gritting his teeth and grunting in restraint, fighting the urge to move faster or to close his eyes in rapture. He needs to see her, catch any sign of discomfort or pain so he can pull out. He has never wanted anything more desperately in his entire life than to make this good for her, to be everything that she deserves.

Her hands travel down to his buttocks, squeezing him wantonly. She sees him trying to control himself, waiting for her. Her face is flushed, the heat of their bodies and her own arousal allowing him to slide into her further. It all feels so overwhelming, so different, so incredible.

"Take me, Matthew," she whispers, pulling him down to her.

He groans as his control snaps. Her voice, her words, her body wrapped around him, it's too much. He thrusts forward and she moans, clutching him closer and he's moving faster and she's kissing his cheek, her legs tighten around his hips.

Her ragged breathing and the pushing of her hips drives him mad with lust. He draws back and his eyes fire open, watching her face as she comes apart around him. He becomes quickly addicted to her cries of pleasure, wanting to hear her, a greedy thrill running through him that it's him who's causing this – that he's loving her.

His head falls to the pillow next to her ear. His hips grow frantic, his release calling to him, flooding his senses. He blinks quickly and realizes the sound that he can hear over the roaring of his blood is her voice. She turns her face and kisses his damp cheek, the same noise coming to him again and again.

"Matthew," she chants over and over, the desire and love and slight hint of shock in her tone thrills him and he redoubles his efforts.

He tries to warn her with a gasp of her name. He tries to pull back and raise himself off of her. She is insistent, wrapping her arms around his back and refusing to let go. She clings to him, continuing to call his name and he cannot deny her as he pushes hard one last time and cries out, his groans immediately swallowed by her mouth as she kisses him through his release.

He vaguely remembers not to collapse on top of his wife as his limbs lose all their strength and he manages to roll them over before his back meets the cool sheets of the large bed.

She curls against his warm skin, a dull ache spreading through her body that is not at all unpleasant.

For several moments, the only sound is both of them trying to catch their breath.

"Was that…did you…was I…" he stumbles.

"Yes," she laughs, a wonderful sound of uninhibited glee that he burns into his memory. "It was. I most certainly did, and you were…you were wonderful, darling."

He laughs along with her. Relief, joy and a somewhat more wicked emotion overtaking his senses. He's overjoyed that it went so well, but more so that it was good for her, that he didn't fail her.

"Although, you know, husband," Mary says lightly, reaching up and kissing his cheek. "It may have all merely been a case of beginner's luck."

He actually snarls at her remark. Relief is forgotten. Joy is pushed to the side. He focuses instead on the other emotion stirring his imagination.

Her wrist is seized. A whimper leaves her throat. Her hand is pushed downward and comes into contact with him. Her eyes go wide in surprise and elation. Weren't they supposed to just go to sleep now?

"Matthew!" she gasps.

He pulls her on top of him this time, his hands finding her hips and moving her, gently but firmly, to where he wants her.

Wants her. God, he'll never stop wanting her.

"I'll show you who's a beginner," he growls, leering up at her.

Her face changes from bewildered surprise to seductive challenge in an instant. He briefly wonders what he has gotten himself into before they both push against each other and join each other in rapture.

* * *

_**Manchester Royal Infirmary, Manchester, England, April 1913**_

* * *

"It is with great pride and appreciation that I make this dedication. This plaque and the surrounding jubilee garden represent a tribute to fifty years of noble service to this institution. There have been a number of changes for this profession, this city and our world in this time, and yet as long as I knew Dr. Reginald Crawley, he did not flinch. He was a favourite son of Manchester, and it is with great humility that we now…."

Matthew knew it was rude but he stopped listening to the hospital board president drone on. He had known Paul Tinslingham for years, and although he was a respected doctor and stately gentleman, he did ramble.

He saw several birds perched on the tree branches just behind the podium that the board president stood on. It was a beautiful spring day, a fitting setting for this tribute to his father, which Matthew wasn't overly thrilled about. It was strange how after losing his father, Matthew seemed to be constantly reminded of him.

He felt eyes upon him and he glanced about, wondering if it was Lord Merton examining him from afar or more hopefully, Mary giving him her steady secret support. However, as he turned he saw it was Stella, Mr. Tinslingham's eldest daughter that sought his attention. Matthew looked away quickly; his presumed bachelor status was of great interest to an increasing number of women since his father's death.

He barely kept his outrage at bay. During Dr. Crawley's lifetime, no one knew of how well off they were, or in particular, how much money Matthew made as a lawyer. They didn't circulate to every party and he didn't go to London often, so though they were known, his eligibility was never an active topic among the upper classes. The sudden interest in Matthew therefore must have stemmed from someone who knew about just how much money had been left to him from his father's Estate. It did not take much effort to deduce who was the source of such gossip. Lord Merton was many things to Matthew – Mary's Godfather, a patron of the hospital, a family acquaintance, and a powerful member of Manchester Society. Matthew could now add conniving and petty to the list, though Mary had already warned him about that.

The hospital had received a generous contribution to its endowment fund from Dr. Crawley's Estate, but not nearly as much as they had apparently been expecting. Matthew smirked. If only the distinguished Lord Merton knew that Dr. Crawley had left twice as much money to Mary as he did to the hospital, the old man would be even more livid.

All of this leant a certain duplicity to this dedication ceremony. While Isobel was pleased with how beautiful the space was and the plaque was certainly lovely, Matthew was far more cynical about it. He could hear the entreaties now. 'Reginald would have wanted to ensure the surgical department had the best facilities, don't you agree, Matthew?' 'If we are to continue to be at the forefront of medicine in Britain, we must continually renew ourselves. You can play a leading role in that, Matthew. Just as Reginald would have wanted.'

Matthew did not know exactly what Lord Merton intended by this obvious strategy to lure him into the Manchester social scene. Did he honestly think Matthew was so easily seduced that he would spend his father's money on a new wife and funds for the hospital?

Matthew almost frowned outwardly at his inner thoughts. Of course that's what Lord Merton assumed. Matthew had inherited money and was the heir to an Earldom now. People made presumptions about him. They assumed that now that he had money and a future in Yorkshire, he had no use for Manchester or his job as a lawyer. Even the partners in his law firm assumed he would be resigning. Matthew was incensed by such shallow and superficial beliefs from such educated people. His life was not a mere shopping list to be completed over time. Money, check. Title, check. Estate in Yorkshire, check. Obviously all that was left was a wife and children and to move away from Manchester!

After rebuking the partners rather strongly and informing them in no uncertain terms that his future at the firm would depend not on his family status but on whether he felt fulfilled by the work or not, he returned home and complained to Mary when he saw her that evening.

"_I'm dying my hair grey and growing a grisly beard. Perhaps then all of these conniving people will stop trying to push themselves at me._"

Mary always knew how to deal with his moods. She had laughed, pulled him into a warm embrace and lectured him on the fact that women interested in his money would not care about his actual physical appearance, and that certainly Lord Merton would be even less bothered.

After the ribbon had been cut around the new plaque and the traditional bottle of champagne broken over it, the guests were now standing around the lawn. The chatting however was dull and uninteresting. Matthew stayed close to his mother, and pretended to be listening to her conversation. As he saw Lord Merton approach, he willed himself to remain calm.

"Ah, Matthew," Lord Merton said with a dashing smile, his teeth showing as he grinned.

Matthew nodded to him. He was past trying to make pleasantries.

"Is everything to your liking? We so wanted to honour your father. Fifty years of service to this hospital is a remarkable achievement. Although some board members squabbled about the fact he wasn't technically in the institution's service until he was a licensed doctor, I fought for him. I said, as a seventeen year old volunteer he was already on his path; therefore it was indeed fifty years."

"Thank you for everything you've done," Matthew said dismissively. "But, if you will excuse me…"

"Have you given thought to Lord Grantham's request?" Lord Merton continued. "He would like you to arrive at Downton in September, as you know."

"We're still in mourning, Lord Merton," Matthew said tightly. "I appreciate the Earl's concern, but I'm not considering anything until after we've spent the year we owe to my father."

"Certainly, Matthew, certainly," Lord Merton nodded. "On another matter, if I may be so bold, a private word of warning," he lowered his voice and he gestured for them to step aside.

Matthew frowned. This man was tiresome and relentless – a dangerous combination. Seeing that Matthew had not moved, Lord Merton relented and merely spoke in soft tones.

"I simply wish to give you some counsel about the silly young girls I saw trying to get your attention this afternoon. Well, you heard the oath, _primum non oncere; first do no harm. _There are a number of women here who may be more interested in your newfound status than anything else. I know, it's horrible to imagine. In particular, I would warn you to stay away from the assistant who works with your mother – Lady Mary," Lord Merton said sternly. "She may be very beautiful, but she will harm you, and you've got so much potential my boy."

"My mother only has good things to say about her," Matthew said innocently. "Do you know her well, Lord Merton?"

"She's my Goddaughter," Lord Merton huffed. "So I know her character better than most. While I do not wish to betray confidences, there is a reason she is here in Manchester, and not in Yorkshire, and if you've heard any rumours about her, you may want to be mindful about them. They are not the usual lies and gossip that flutter around Society from time to time. There's more truth to them than you may realize."

Matthew grit his teeth behind his pursed lips. How dare this man say such things about his wife!

"Matthew," he heard his name and calmed himself. He turned towards his mother.

"I'm sorry but I'm feeling a headache and I would like to retire from this little party. Would you accompany me?"

"Of course, mother," he said. He politely made his excuses, taking some small satisfaction in seeing Lord Merton somewhat put off by their sudden departure.

As they strode out of the little garden and across the street into Whitworth Park, Isobel smiled at her son.

"You're welcome," she said quietly. "I'm starting to see your point about needing to go with you to Yorkshire. You clearly are not capable to surviving on your own with their kind of people."

Matthew smiled. His constant entreaties to his Mother were beginning to take hold.

"I've always said I'll need more than a green cockatiel named Abel on my side," Matthew said.

"I don't know what kind of welcoming committee you'll receive when you arrive with a bird cage in one hand and your elderly mother on your arm, but I suppose that won't be the only shock our new family will receive," Isobel laughed. "Abel may not know how to leave his cage, but I do."

"I'll be proud to have both of you with me," Matthew nodded. "I'll appreciate having someone on my side," he sighed. "I still don't know how I can live under the same roof as Mary and pretend to not know her."

"I'd say that's an improvement over the way you've been carrying on since your marriage," Isobel teased.

"Be serious," Matthew scolded.

"I don't begin to understand why you have to maintain this ruse of not knowing each other or living together. I did not understand it in the beginning, and I fail to comprehend it now. A woman should not be judged by her past, and if you are the heir, then who your wife is should have no bearing on anything," Isobel said fiercely.

"You know I cannot betray Mary's trust and reveal all of it," Matthew grumbled. "You'll just have to take it on faith."

"Of course," Isobel chuckled, smiling at her son. "That I have in abundance."

"Besides, the less you know, the better," Matthew smiled. "Better for them to think us both ignorant and underestimate us."

"To their peril," Isobel laughed. Matthew was glad for her good humour. Though she seemed to have adjusted to his father's passing better than he had, he knew she was just being stoic. He knew his mother was always happiest with a task or mission to focus on, and in going with him to Downton Abbey in the fall, she would be taking on her biggest crusade yet.

Now all they had to do was convince Mary.

* * *

_**Midland Hotel, Manchester, England, December, 1912**_

* * *

Mary smiled as she heard a knock at the door. She had been standing by the window, looking down at the city below, lightly touching the turquoise bee broach pinned to her dress. It was a combined birthday, Christmas and wedding gift from Dr. Crawley given to her a year ago. It represented the bee mosaic which was on the floor of the Manchester City Hall, a coded symbol of her marriage to Matthew that she could flaunt in public.

She went to the door and opened it. Matthew stood across the threshold. He smiled at her in an entirely improper fashion. She backed away to permit him entry into their suite, a smile crossing her lips as he closed the door behind him, his eyes upon her the entire time.

"Hello, lover," she said thickly.

Matthew raised his eyebrow teasingly. "What would your husband's reaction be if he heard you call me that?"

"I have a fairly good idea," she smirked, deliberately glancing down his body before looking back up at his wide eyes.

She laughed as he hugged her and they kissed.

"Are you sure that you want to stay here again?" he asked, keeping her in his hold. "St. Pancras Station is just outside. It's not too late to take a trip."

"You are very stubborn," she said coyly.

"_I'm stubborn_?" Matthew said with a chuckle. "Now that is rich."

"I want to spend my first anniversary here," Mary said her voice a delicate whisper, "With you, husband, in Manchester, in this suite, where we spent our wedding night."

"Well, that is a relief. Because I've made a lot of plans that required a lot of work, and money and time, I would have hated to simply chuck that all away on a whim."

The church bells chimed signalling it was six o'clock at night.

"What time was that last train to Paris?" Mary asked her face now serious and poised with interest.

Matthew's rolled his eyes at her playfully. He released her and they both took a seat on the sofa.

"I've got a Cinderella Weekend planned for us here," he said.

"What is a weekend?" Mary responded with confusion. However, she couldn't keep her face serious any longer and her mask broke free betraying her amusement. "My Granny once said that to a guest she considered a simpleton."

"For our first night of entertainment, beyond the memorable spectacle that will happen behind our closed doors…"

"Matthew!" Mary admonished him sternly, although she couldn't help but blush.

"We will listen to the string quartet orchestra at the Gaiety Theatre; they will be playing a new British composer by the name of Gustav Holst."

"He doesn't sound British! And how is that Cinderella related?" Mary laughed.

"If you would let me finish, you would know to trust a name can be anything, it has no borders. Well, Mr. Holst wrote a piece called Cinderella. The word Cinderella isn't just a fairy tale name; it is recognized as someone who can achieve despite all odds; even if they are neglected or underappreciated. It has long been a name that produces inspiration and hope."

"Indeed?" Mary asked, finding it so typically Matthew to be attracted to such symbolism.

"And for the next night? What do you propose?" she asked boldly.

"We will see a production of Cinderella that is supposed to be good fun as it's done in pantomime."

"Sounds scandalous," Mary replied evenly.

"I assure you it's nothing of the sort," Matthew huffed defensively a twinkle in his eyes. "The Gaiety theatre is owned by a woman, who wears exotic clothing and smokes cigarettes. Hmm, actually, on second thought…"

Mary laughed. She then stood up and Matthew looked at her in surprise as she wandered towards the bedroom.

"Where are you going?" Matthew asked.

"To get our weekend off to a good start," Mary said, disappearing into the bedroom. Matthew frowned as he tried to decipher her meaning.

"Come here, Matthew," she called. "Unless you want to spend the weekend sleeping on that sofa."

Matthew almost tripped on the coffee table in his haste to get to her.

* * *

_**Home of Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, June 1913**_

* * *

"You haven't gotten much better at scheming," Mary smirked, her head draped lazily against his chest. "You are as easy to read as a children's book."

"I don't know what you are referring to," Matthew smiled, moving slightly into a more comfortable position. The shifting of his body caused him to push his hips against his wife and she slapped him playfully.

"That is exactly what I am referring to!" she said pointedly. "Buying me new earrings, your mother very conveniently going away for the weekend with friends at the exact time that Lady Philomena leaves for London, and having Mrs. Bird cook my favourite dinner and dessert. Your attempts at seduction are entirely transparent."

"Must I apologize for wanting to have dinner alone with my wife? Must there be a nefarious plot behind giving your jewellery? Why can't a husband merely want to show his love for his wife through innocent gestures?" he asked.

"There's nothing innocent about your insistence that I wear my new earrings to bed, _and nothing else_, as you so eloquently demanded," Mary said playfully.

"I requested you wear them to bed," Matthew pointed out. "Obviously it was your wanton streak that caused you to agree," he laughed, reaching down and pinching her bottom.

She slapped his chest again. "Stop it! You're only trying to get into my good graces before you bring up your ridiculous plan once more."

"Mary," Matthew sighed.

"Well? Call me a liar then if it isn't true!" she quirked her eyebrow at him in challenge. "You think that now that you've satisfied my desires, that I shall satisfy yours, isn't that it?"

"I think you've already done that quite conclusively, actually," he joked. "And more than once, I might add."

"Don't be rude," Mary rolled her eyes, curling herself closer to him.

"You promised me you would think about it, Mary," Matthew pointed out, hugging her closer.

"I did think about it. My answer is still no," Mary said petulantly.

"Well what am I to tell your father then? He expects me at Downton in September as you well know," Matthew shook his head.

"You can tell Lord Grantham that he can take his invitation and shove it," she spat. "He could use a strong dose of rejection, believe me. It will teach him that he can't always get what he wants."

"Mary," Matthew tried again.

"Do you know how horrible it will be? Do you have any idea?" she asked. "To live in my old home, the home that I was to spend the rest of my days in as Countess of Grantham, and to have to sleep in a separate room from my own husband? I won't be able to acknowledge you or talk to you the way I want, to touch you or embrace you, to make love to you or wake up with you or any of those things! Matthew, it will be torture!"

"I know, Mary, I know, for me as well," he nodded. "But it will be a small sacrifice, and it won't be for long. Once I smash the entail in its entirety, all can be revealed."

"How can you be so certain that you can? Unless you are able to destroy it, we'll be trapped, Matthew. They'll be parading women in front of you constantly and I won't be able to say anything to object! Why, they'll probably try and arrange something for you with Edith!" Mary sighed.

"And I will not let any of that happen," Matthew said firmly. "I believe I can do this Mary. I can make Downton safe for us, and our children. But I can't do it without you."

"Of course, you can't," Mary sighed. "I don't know, Matthew. I just don't know."

"There's no need to decide now," he said carefully. "Besides, are you so sure that we won't have any time together while we are there? I thought it was a rather big house, and you are quite resourceful when you put your mind to something."

Mary huffed. "That's not the point. There are numerous unused rooms and secret passages, attics and such that could host any number of private liaisons."

"Good," Matthew smirked. He turned towards her and drew her into a deep kiss.

"If we're to have liaisons at Downton," he said in a low voice as he rolled her on to her back. "We need to practice, darling."

"You're incorrigible," she sighed in pleasure, grinning as she ran her hands up his back and hooked her leg across the back of his thigh. "This won't convince me, Matthew, but you're welcome to keep trying," she said, before her voice was taken by a delicious moan.


	14. Chapter 14

_**Grantham House, St. James Square, London, England, June 1888**_

* * *

"Mrs. Levinson," the man nodded politely, motioning to a chair.

"Lord Grantham," Martha Levinson replied in kind. She took her seat, nodding to the butler as he assisted her. She glanced around the large room, rather ostentatious for a sitting room, but then her time here for the London Season had shown her that the English enjoyed showing off, in a stoic and reserved way at least.

"Did your daughter enjoy the theatre yesterday?" Arthur Crawley asked.

"She enjoyed it about as much as your son did, I expect," Martha replied carefully.

"Good," Arthur smiled. "Robert tells me he had a splendid time."

"How lucky for all of us that the two of them are getting along," Martha smirked.

"Yes, although I must tell you that Robert is not lacking in options," Arthur said plainly. "I recommended that he consider Lady Sheila Williams, but he told me he wanted to spend time with your Cora first. He's rather sentimental, my boy."

"Yes, I imagine that he is. Men seem to become quite sentimental around Cora; almost as much as their fathers become sentimental over her dowry," Martha said evenly.

Arthur Crawley barely flinched. "You Americans. So direct and to the point, aren't you?"

"We'd rather not waste time on meaningless conversation when both sides know what they want out of an arrangement," Martha retorted.

"Very well, Mrs. Levinson," Arthur nodded. "I am prepared to agree to the engagement of your daughter to my son, subject to certain conditions. She will, upon their marriage, be known as Viscountess Downton, and once my son inherits my title and becomes Earl of Grantham, your daughter shall be Countess of Grantham, Lady Grantham to her peers, and shall have charge of both this home here in London and our country estate, Downton Abbey in Yorkshire. The title alone should be sufficient for you to brag about to your friends in Rhode Island, and may even raise you a notch or two in New York, don't you think?"

Martha smiled and chuckled slightly. The Earl of Grantham was smarter than she thought.

"And I am prepared to agree to Cora accepting your son's proposal, and to bringing her share of my husband's money into the marriage to save your beloved Downton Abbey. No one will tell her of the true intentions for this marriage. I won't have her thinking she is a throw-in to our deal. She will believe at all times that your son cares for her and that her inheritance is but a side factor."

"Of course," Arthur nodded. "And rest assured, Mrs. Levinson. My son is many things, but he was raised as a gentleman. Cora will be treated with respect and cared for, as will all of their children. I will see to it personally."

"Then we have terms, Lord Grantham," Martha nodded.

"As much as I would enjoy holding you to that, I must first ask – I trust that Cora's virtue is above reproach?" Arthur inquired.

Martha Levinson frowned and pursed her lips.

"Lord Grantham, if we were in New York, I would be well within my rights to throw this glass of wine in your face and walk out on you for having the gall to ask me that," Martha said, her eyes narrowing.

"You're in London, Mrs. Levinson," Arthur smiled. "I would insist that you use water, rather than wine, and I wouldn't be a gentleman if I didn't have my butler escort you to the door afterward."

Martha smiled. She was beginning to like her daughter's future father-in-law.

"Cora is pure," Martha said, sipping her wine. "Though I would be very interested to see how you would even test such an assertion."

"Your word is sufficient," Arthur nodded. "If, however, we were to learn otherwise, the engagement will be void. If such information were to come to our attention after the marriage, that would constitute grounds for divorce, and your husband's money would be forfeit."

"You don't expect to be able to enforce such terms, do you?" Martha laughed.

"I promise you, Mrs. Levinson, the marriage contract I have drafted for Cora to sign is ironclad, as is the entail that specifies the Grantham line of succession and ties Downton Abbey to the title of Earl of Grantham. I take my family's future very seriously, Mrs. Levinson. I won't allow any fallen woman to occupy my mother's seat. So long as Cora remains untouched until her wedding night, we will have no problems."

"Given the state of your finances, Lord Grantham, I highly doubt that you are in a position to make such demands," Martha said suspiciously.

"You are entitled to your opinion, Mrs. Levinson," Arthur nodded. "I assure you that men far more clever than the both of us decided long ago the precise type of woman who would be allowed to be Countess of Grantham, and they were resolved enough in their principles to set out such requirements as part of the entail, so that no unfortunate misunderstandings would occur in future generations. I, like the Earls before me, am merely carrying out their instructions. The House of Grantham will endure, Mrs. Levinson. The only question is whether or not your daughter will be a part of it."

"Was your father this onerous with regard to your wife?" Martha asked.

"He was," Arthur said tightly. "You've met dear Violet, haven't you?"

"I have," Martha nodded. "She did not appear too impressed by Cora, or me."

"Then that puts you both in esteemed company, Mrs. Levinson," Arthur smiled. "She hasn't been impressed by me in decades."

The two of them laughed together and nodded in understanding, the tension lifting slightly.

"But," Arthur continued sincerely. "Violet did give me a son, which is all an Earl needs from his marriage, truly. Children are important, but sons are vital."

Martha raised her eyebrow at his comment.

"I'm becoming more convinced that my late husband would have very much enjoyed your company," she said drily, reaching for her wine once more.

Arthur Crawley, Sixth Earl of Grantham raised his hand. The butler brought him a large envelope. Arthur passed it across the table to Martha.

"Shall we meet again this Friday evening for an announcement dinner?" Arthur offered. "Cora can sign the contract before we eat."

"We will be here with bells on," Martha nodded.

* * *

_**The Croft, Fletcher Moss Gardens, Manchester, England, July 1913**_

* * *

"Sybil writes that Lord Grantham is rather preoccupied with you," Mary said as she followed Matthew to their traditional secluded picnic spot. The parasol she held was a shield against both the sun and any prying eyes that may observe them together. She watched her husband as he lightly swung the luncheon basket.

"I'm hardly worth getting worked up over," Matthew mumbled as he continued forward.

His mood whenever the subject of Downton was raised often shifted wildly. Sometimes he would bellow and gesticulate and argue for hours about what he thought was right. Other times, just as now, he would offer a few token words. His resolve was still firm, but he was tiring of the debate. They both were.

The subject of Downton had confounded both of them for weeks now. Though Mary was still officially against the idea of Matthew answering Lord Grantham's summons, they had still not resolved anything. Matthew had written back to the Earl, politely telling him that he was still in mourning for his father, and that he would reply to the Earl's request in September once it was appropriate to do so. He continued to research entails and estates law, but without the actual entail document in front of him, he could only speak in generalities, which he hated to do. Every case turned on its facts, he often said, and just because the law said one thing, that did not mean it applied in all situations. Matthew did not cope with uncertainty very well. He needed to be sure before he exposed himself to any risk.

For her part, Mary was not looking forward to the idea of her future dangling in the wind either. In Manchester she had certainty. She had a husband, a true family, and in several years time when London Society forgot her name and moved on to another scandal, she would have her freedom and could live with Matthew and be a proper wife to him. She would never be Countess of Grantham, but she would be something far more important – happy and loved.

But even she had to admit that Downton Abbey was infiltrating her life again. She had tried to forget the place, and those who lived there, besides Sybil anyway, and she had done an admirable job of doing so. But, ever since Lord Merton arrived on that fateful night to tell Dr. Crawley that he was the third cousin of Lord Grantham, long buried memories and feelings had come back to her. For months she felt rage and fury, sometimes reliving the horror of that night when Patrick came to her bedroom and the world changed. Only Matthew's soothing touch had kept her sane in her worst moments.

But lately she had been stung with something far worse – hope. It was in Matthew's bright eyes and eager voice, telling her he would stand with her, support her, fight for her. Fight for _her_. No man had ever done that before. Even Dr. Crawley had simply given a directive to reassign her from Cassandra to Isobel's supervision at the hospital. Knowing all that stood before them, Matthew was undaunted, almost foolishly so, and Mary was unable to resist beginning to believe in her husband.

Her rational mind screamed at her. The entail could not be defeated. It was impossible. If there was a way to get around it, why had her Papa never found it? Why had her Mama and her Granny not fought her corner more vigorously if the entail could be beaten? Why had she been sent away at James and Patrick's order if the very thing that gave them power over her and her family could be destroyed?

Matthew placed the basket on the grass and spread out the large blanket at the foot of the gingko tree. Mary stood off to the side, observing him as he set up the plates of food. She shook her head and smiled at her husband.

The hard truth was that Mary didn't know for sure. She couldn't know just how impregnable the entail was because no one had ever tried to challenge it. Her Papa believed it was so because his father and his grandfather before him had told him to. Murray, the family solicitor, had agreed because he was paid to do so. Her Mama agreed with her Papa even though she didn't understand any of it. And Granny wouldn't oppose her own son on this issue, no matter how much she may want to. She had never opposed her husband or his father. She was wise enough to know she could not fight them alone. Though she was Lady Grantham, the Dowager Countess, she had no actual power or status with which to fight.

But Matthew believed. God help them, but Matthew believed. He would find a way, he said. He would do it for her, he promised. After years of being pushed aside, ignored, told to mind her place, Mary now had a champion, a man willing to stand up and at least try, try to help her. If she couldn't accept his attempt, wasn't she just as bad as her family? Wasn't she, like her Mama before her, admitting defeat without a fight?

But what could he do, truly? A middle class lawyer from Manchester against the Earl of Grantham, his minions and all the history of Downton Abbey? What chance did they really have?

"Mary, come here," Matthew smiled, reaching his hand out to her. "I have lemonade."

Mary smiled and went over and sat down on the blanket beside him.

* * *

_**Downton Village Church, Downton Village, Yorkshire, England, May 1890**_

* * *

"Try and at least look like you are glad for our son, my dear," Arthur smiled, waving politely to the villagers lining the street. The carriage jostled slightly on the dirt road. Lord Grantham did not know if his wife's grunt was from the road conditions or her own pique.

"Glad is such a strong term," Violet Crawley replied. "Although I can most assuredly say that I am not glad for you that you've apparently pulled off this scheme."

"Violet, please," Arthur sighed. "As much as you are loathe to admit it, the Levinsons have saved us. You don't need to like them. I know I don't."

"No, you just like their money," Violet said, smiling for the first time all day.

"Once again, I've found a solution to our problems that ensures the continued prestige of our House and your future, I might add. I gave up on receiving your gratitude years ago, but your cooperation I still expect," Arthur said brusquely.

"I cooperated with you when you decided to sell Rosamund to Marmaduke Painswick," Violet spat, not looking at him. "Now you've mortgaged your son's happiness to buy your way out of insolvency, Arthur. And to an American of all people! I hardly see how I should support that."

"Your son is not in any position to feel entitled to anything, let alone happiness," Arthur bit back. "You may have conveniently forgotten his incident in London, but I have not."

"He was an adolescent, Arthur," Violet rolled her eyes. "And it was just as much James' fault as his."

"James is no better than he is," Arthur frowned. "But if you expect me to believe that James was somehow the true criminal and Robert merely his unwitting accomplice, then you underestimate me again, my dear."

"What does it matter who is to blame?" Violet sighed tiredly. "You've fixed it so they won't be rid of each other anytime soon."

"And so they shouldn't be," Arthur said firmly as the carriage came to a halt. "On their own, each of them would plunge our House into ruin. I've made it so they must share power, at least for the short term, and now that we have the Levinson money, Downton may survive long enough for a proper Earl to come forward."

"Requiring that Robert and James work together for the sake of Downton is a dangerous game, Arthur," Violet frowned. "If one of them is to someday be the Earl, then that man must be given the freedom to rise and fall on his own merit."

"Why, Violet," Arthur smiled ruthlessly. "You're a romantic!"

Violet huffed bitterly and turned back to the window. "I shall forget that you called me that."

"Robert will be the Earl, Violet," Arthur said firmly. "But despite all of my guidance, he has still strayed off of the path that I have set for him. He needs direction, guidance, and requiring that he work with his heir will ensure he never has the opportunity to act recklessly with the fate of our House."

"If you truly believe that the current Earl should work side-by-side with his heir, then why don't you allow Robert some decision making power now?" Violet asked pointedly, raising her eyebrow at her husband.

"He isn't ready for the responsibility," Arthur retorted dismissively. "No, my changes to the entail shall take effect upon my death, and not a moment sooner."

"How convenient," Violet growled.

"What is, my dear wife?" Arthur asked coldly. "The amendment to the entail, or the prospect of my death? I suppose both could be seen as being a boon for you?"

Violet frowned and looked away again, guilt and annoyance fighting to a stalemate inside of her.

The door to the carriage was opened and the loud cheers of the villagers standing outside the Church filtered in.

"Smile, my dear," Arthur whispered. "Show the villagers how happy you are about the bright future that awaits all of us."

* * *

_**The Croft, Fletcher Moss Gardens, Manchester, England, July 1913**_

* * *

"Sybil reported that Lord Grantham was particularly vexed by your letter because he expected you to accept his offer and go running to Downton Abbey immediately," Mary said, placing the last used plate into the picnic basket.

"Mary, you can call him your father, you know. I'm not so upset that I can't hear that word," Matthew said.

Mary smiled at him. It was Matthew's birthday, which meant it was also his father's birthday, and he had been pensive since this morning.

"I suppose I can do that," Mary nodded. "Calling him Papa does not necessarily imply that he was a particularly good one."

Matthew smiled sadly in acknowledgment.

"I don't see what is so vexing. He sent for me and I told him that I needed to deal with matters here first, namely the mourning of my father," Matthew said.

"Well, my father is never pleased with anything; I've told you as much. Apparently he already told the family that you would be arriving in September. He doesn't cope well with not knowing precisely what's to happen in the future, and not being in control of it."

"The future," Matthew scoffed, looking out across the park. "None of us can know that."

Mary looked at him sadly. How right he was. At various times in the past years, she thought her future was set for her, and now she was again uncertain.

"Anyway, I think that you should write to him in several weeks' time and give him your decision," Mary said lightly, trying to draw his thoughts back to the present.

Matthew turned to her and appraised her cautiously.

"My decision will depend on what my wife says about the matter," he stated. "I won't go without her."

"You don't have a wife," Mary said, arching her eyebrow. "At least as far as anyone in Yorkshire knows."

Matthew exhaled and looked back across the park.

"I could command you to go, you know," Matthew said quietly, not looking at her. "You vowed to obey me."

"You could, yes," Mary said. "But would you?"

Matthew turned to her, his expression soft and concerned. "Of course not."

Mary looked down at her lap, her skirt fanned out over her legs.

"Why are you so good to me?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper.

"What?" Matthew asked, frowning.

Mary lifted her eyes and looked at him, her brow creased in question.

"Why have you agreed to everything I've asked of you? Accepting my scandal, agreeing to keep our relationship a secret, marrying me despite all the reasons why you shouldn't have, living apart at my request. Is it all simply because you love me?" she asked.

"Yes," Matthew nodded, smiling at her. "Precisely."

"And you don't think I'm damaged goods, even though all of Society thinks so," Mary said.

"You know that I don't," Matthew said firmly.

"And there is your first problem if you are to truly go to Downton Abbey and take up your position," Mary said. "It doesn't matter what you think, Matthew. All that matters is what opinion will gain you the most benefit and advantage. Society says that I'm a slut, and if you are to be the heir to the Earl of Grantham, then you must say it as well."

Matthew cringed. "No," he said firmly. "I won't."

"Then you'll never succeed," Mary said coldly. "You'll never gain their confidence, their trust. You'll never convince them that you're one of them, and without that, you'll never accomplish what you intend to do."

Matthew sighed. He turned away bitterly, then slowly looked back at her.

"If this is ever to have any chance of working, you must become one of them, Matthew. You must be a proper gentleman, and follow all of the rules of Society. They must see you as the Earl-in-waiting, a man who can be told everything. Do you see what you are asking of me now? Going to Downton Abbey isn't simply taking a trip to Yorkshire, my darling. No, it's putting on an act, for as long as it takes."

"What about you?" Matthew asked quietly.

Mary laughed sourly. "Me? I'll go back to being cold and careful. I'll hate you, oppose you at every turn, argue with you just to try and get a rise out of you. You represent everything that was taken from me, Matthew, everything that I lost. I'll despise you, and remind you of that fact every day."

"Mary," Matthew rolled his eyes and looked skyward.

"I'm the enemy, Matthew," Mary said firmly. "I was cast out, and I'll be returning against their wishes. You'll have to hate me just as much as they do."

"I disagree," Matthew shot back. "If the entail says what you say it does, then that's not true. As the heir, I have a certain amount of authority, and if I choose not to hate you, no one can force me to. I may not be allowed to tell them that you're my wife, but I don't have to hate you."

Mary swallowed at his response. She had never seen him argue in front of a judge, or give directions to the other lawyers in his office, but when roused, she expected that few men would want to oppose Matthew.

"But you can't choose to love me. Not there," Mary said softly.

Matthew's face fell. "Mary."

"You won't be able to kiss me," she whispered, staring him in the eyes and leaning towards him.

"You won't be able to touch me. You won't be able to strip me naked the way that you love to. You won't be able to take me, either in the middle of the day or in the still of the night. All of your desire, Matthew, all of your passion, you'll have to keep it buried. You'll have to pass each day, knowing what it feels like to make love to me, and never be able to act upon it."

Matthew groaned in protest. His eyes lingered on her lips, so close to him. He breathed to calm himself, then stared back at her eyes.

"Never is a strong word, Mary," he replied, and her breath caught as his eyes darkened. "If I were to find you alone, away from the servants and your family, would you still refuse me?"

Mary swallowed, her lips curling into a smile that she immediately tried to stifle. "Well, you are the heir, and will be the head of our family one day. It is my duty to obey your command."

Matthew felt arousal course through him and he kissed her quickly, drawing back before he lost himself in her. He calmly reached for her hand, and her eyes followed his movements. He held her open palm in his, the fingers of his other hand coming over top and caressing her wedding band.

Mary's eyes went wide at the gesture, the tears welling inside of her.

"There will be many sacrifices, for both of us," he said slowly. "But I made vows to you, Mary, and a promise to my father, and I am prepared to endure months of misery if it means a lifetime of happiness with you."

Mary closed her eyes, his words ringing in her ears.

"What if you're wrong, Matthew? What if you fail?" she asked, her eyes still closed.

"Then we'll return here, content that we made every effort to put things to the good. But, Mary, what if I'm right?" Matthew replied.

Mary gasped, the visions flooding her mind, her resistance ebbing away, unable to stop the burgeoning dreams she had tried to deny.

She and Matthew riding through the fields, laughing, chasing foxes and racing each other.

She standing by Matthew during the Shoot, smiling as he raised his gun and tracked a bird through the air.

She and Matthew touring the tenant farms together; she holding on to his arm as they discussed grain costs and livestock prices.

She and Matthew sitting beside each other at dinner, laughing with Sybil and Edith, and Isobel and her Granny, while Carson and the footmen served them a delectable meal.

She and Matthew dancing together during the Servants' Ball, twirling around under the vaulted ceilings of the Great Hall.

She and Matthew making love in her bedroom at Downton Abbey, creating new memories and banishing the old ones forever.

She and Matthew taking their seats in a private box at Wimbledon during the Season, being announced as Lord and Lady Grantham.

Mary opened her eyes.

"If we are to do this together, Matthew, then I have much to teach you," she declared.

Matthew grinned. "I am yours, Mary."

* * *

_**Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, September 1913**_

* * *

Robert wandered down the vast hall. Portraits of the previous Earls of Grantham stared down at him. He paused before one particular ancestor and sighed to himself. Robert had heard the stories countless times. The First Earl established the Earldom in the 18th century. Robert looked about the gallery of paintings. None of the other Earls were as grandiose as the First, none could compete, not even his father; though he had tried. Robert took a step backwards, his hands clasped together behind his back. He analyzed the picture of the First Earl and the lessons of his boyhood came back easily. His father had often made him and James stare at this work of art as if by looking upon the stern unblinking gaze, they would each somehow inherit his qualities.

"_Learn who he was, and you'll learn who you should be,"_ his father had said cryptically.

James, who was never inclined to listen, had spent the time making jokes and criticizing their ancestor, especially the glaring infirmity of having lost his right arm in combat. In the portrait, nothing was hidden, and in fact the Earl puffed out his chest and displayed his missing limb proudly, it was the focal point; despite the gleaming awards and medals adorning his chest. The Earl was seated in a plush red chair wearing the military uniform from his exploits as an Admiral in His Majesty's Navy. Due to his many heroic exploits, the Earl had rarely lived on English soil or at his estate. He had preferred always to be at sea, commanding his naval army rather than be with his wife and children. His portrait, therefore, was domineering to remind everyone he was still looming over them, still the Lord of the manor, still impacting their lives from afar.

Robert was groomed from birth to take up his father's title. He was drilled in the family history and how it all mattered. Tradition. History. Legacy. They were not the clichés that James thought they were in their childhood. They stood for something.

When Robert married Cora, sons were expected of them. The title and estate would pass on through Robert's line and James would never inherit. When Patrick was born, James received praise, but the child was seen more as a signal that Robert, the true heir, would soon have a son of his own.

When Mary was born, everyone welcomed her. There would be more children, and so, while James was smug that he alone had produced a male child to that point, even he knew that the moment Cora produced a son, the future of the Earldom and of Downton would be secure.

Then Edith was born soon after, and Sybil after her. With the birth of the Earl's third daughter, James' attitude changed. Suddenly, Patrick was no longer just a boy or a cousin. He was the only male descendent of the Grantham line in his generation. Though James was younger than Robert, there was a small chance that the Earl would outlive his cousin. But the likelihood that Cora would have another child, let alone a son after three daughters, was small. James began devouring the family history, spending hours in the library at Downton Abbey. He had to catch up on all that he had ignored during his youth. Fate had decided that now he and Patrick would wield the balance of power in the family, and he relished the idea.

Robert sighed as he came to his father's portrait. Even the Sixth Earl, known for his foresight and his meticulous nature, could never have predicted what had come to pass. Both of Robert's heirs had been snatched away from him. It was nearly a year and a half since the _Titanic_ disaster. Surely if James and Patrick had survived, there would have been word by now? The reality was Robert had lost his heirs, and he needed to act.

So once again he did what he had to do to carry on his duty and honour his ancestors. He found another heir, and when tragedy had struck Dr. Reginald Crawley, Robert reached out to his son, Matthew. The new heir, the last living heir presumptive, a mere solicitor from Manchester, would finally be arriving in the coming weeks. Lord Merton had warned Robert that this Matthew Crawley was wilful, stubborn, an independent thinker, and never did anything without careful consideration. Robert thought such a description amusing. No one could be as troublesome as James had been. Matthew would be a breath of fresh air, and Robert would ensure he was handled properly.

In his weaker moments, Robert still believed that somehow Patrick would return. After all, his cousin's son was younger and stronger than his father had been. Robert couldn't say that he approved of Patrick, but it didn't matter what he thought; the man would have married Mary and ensured the Grantham line remained pure. But that plan, like so many others, had been wasted by his eldest daughter's foolishness. Robert exhaled his peeved breath of exasperation. It was almost as though Mary was James's daughter for all of her deception and scandal and refusal to listen. She had a dangerous spark in her, a penchant for rebellion that was cute in her childhood but had become a glaring flaw as she grew into a young lady.

If Robert had his way, Mary would be living with his mother-in-law in America, never to be seen again. But Lord Merton had intervened, with some prodding by the Dowager Countess. How could Robert trust Lord Merton's assessment of his heir if the man was ignorant enough to give Mary a haven in England? No, Robert would not make the same mistake he had done with James and Patrick. He would take Matthew under his wing right from the off, and ensure he was controlled from his arrival.

"I thought I would find you here," Cora said, startling him out of his reverie.

Robert turned his gaze away from the painting and towards his wife. She looked pensive, and as he appraised her, he noticed she was holding an opened letter in her hand.

"And here I am," Robert answered, rather annoyed at the interruption. "You have something to tell me?" he asked impatiently.

"Yes," Cora continued. She took a tentative step closer, "Mary has written." She held up the letter and simply let the words hang in the air between them.

"She would dare? That is rather presumptuous of her. What could she possibly have to say that we would have any interest in?" Robert demanded angrily. After all this time, she wrote to them? Her exile had obviously taught her nothing. She was still speaking out of turn.

"She writes that she is coming back," Cora said cautiously, "She says that now that James and Patrick have been declared dead and their mourning period is over, and there is a new heir, there is no reason for her to remain away, or to remain banished, as she puts it."

Robert's already rigid posture tensed. He knew he should have censored Sybil from writing to Mary. Cora had told him it was harmless. His wife had failed him yet again.

"Out of the question," he said firmly. "She can't return when she has been offered no reconciliation. The door was closed to her when she left. Mary can be such a child sometimes, assuming that all will be forgiven with the passage of time."

Cora looked at the portrait of the Sixth Earl, the man who had made her sign her marriage contract, binding her father's money to Downton, and in turn to the Earldom. She sighed with sad resignation.

"What should I tell her?"

Robert unlaced his joined hands behind his back.

"My dear," he said coldly. "You'll tell her nothing. You'll also tell Sybil that she is forbidden from writing to Mary any further."

Cora nodded sadly. As much as she wanted to fight for her daughter, the world they lived in made no concessions available at the moment. Perhaps in the future, but currently, there was no salvation for Mary from her scandal. Cora had made discreet inquiries in London over the past Seasons, and the rumours of Mary and the Turk still lingered. They had ebbed slightly, but if Mary were to return, they would be revived, as fresh as the day they were first spoken. It made her heartsick, but she knew it was fruitless to fight Robert on this. She clutched the letter in her hands, her daughter's familiar handwriting had made her smile in the privacy of her bedroom.

"If she receives no answer, she'll know she is not invited. Downton Abbey is not her home, nor is it a place she can return to at her choosing. Mary needs to learn that there are consequences for her vulgar actions, and in this case, exile is the consequence. She should be grateful that I have allowed her to remain in England."

Cora opened her mouth to speak, but Robert took her hand and squeezed it gently.

"You know that I'm right," he said softly. "We must put the family's honour first, not just for Downton but for the sake of our other daughters. These are delicate times with the new heir coming. I can't have Mary here, arguing with him and with me day and night, to say nothing of whether she might create another scandal. No, she can't distract me asking for compassion. I must remain firm, and she must remain away."

Robert took his wife's silence as agreement. He pecked her on the cheek and released her hand, walking away without further comment on the subject.

Cora watched him go, his shoulders set and his back rigid. All this time and Robert still did not understand their eldest daughter. Mary had not asked for his compassion, nor his permission to come back. Her letter was clear, a signal to her family – she was coming, and she did not give a fig what anyone thought about it.

* * *

_**Home of Isobel Crawley, Manchester, England, September 1913**_

* * *

"Dessert fork," Mary announced.

Matthew reached for the fork sitting above his plate.

"No," Mary shook her head. "With your left hand."

Matthew sighed in exasperation and began again.

"And when you're finished?" Mary asked.

Matthew placed his fork down on his plate.

"No," Mary shook head.

Matthew frowned, then shook his head in frustration. He reached over and turned his fork prong side down.

"Better. At least you know the answer. You just don't know it right away," Mary smiled.

"I can't believe that I'm a grown man and, according to some people, I barely know the proper fork to use at dinner," Matthew rolled his eyes.

"If you think that's strange, imagine my shock that I've married such a man," Mary laughed, coming over and massaging his shoulders.

"Can we take a break, please?" he muttered. "My etiquette and my ego have taken a sufficient bruising for now."

"And what did you have in mind to pass the time?" Mary asked.

"Sadly, nothing so bold," Matthew said, rising from his chair and kissing her lightly. "Davis said the papers for the sale of the house arrived. I just need to review them and sign them."

They walked from the table to the desk. Matthew moved some boxes aside to clear space, then grabbed the envelope that Davis had brought to the library earlier.

"I'm so sorry that you're selling your house," Mary shook her head. "I was truly looking forward to living there."

"Our house," Matthew nodded. "I was looking forward to seeing you run the place. It would have been a sanctuary for friends and family, the venue for Manchester's most talked about parties."

Mary smiled kindly.

"Anyway, we don't need it, so it makes no sense to hang on to it. Even if we were ever to return here, this house is big enough for all of us," Matthew said.

Mary smiled amusedly.

"What?" Matthew smiled.

"Oh, it's nothing, darling," Mary chuckled. "I just wonder if you and your mother are truly ready for what you will encounter at Downton."

"Hardly," Matthew smiled. "What do you mean?"

"Well, please do not misunderstand me. Your parents' home is lovely. I've never felt more welcome in any house. But Downton Abbey is…bigger."

"It's a country estate, I know," Matthew said.

"No, Matthew," Mary grinned despite herself. "It's much bigger than you can imagine, I expect."

"How so?" Matthew furrowed his brow. "You know how vivid my imagination can be."

"When it comes to me, yes," Mary blushed. "But I doubt you have ever imagined a place like Downton."

"Oh come on, Mary," Matthew rolled his eyes. "Just because we're from Manchester doesn't mean we live in wigwams. How big could it be, truly? How many rooms are there? 50?"

Mary smiled to herself. "80."

"80?" Matthew said, his eyes widening in surprise. "Well, I suppose when you add servants' quarters and kitchens and so forth, that can add up."

"No, darling, not 80 rooms. 80 bedrooms," Mary smiled.

"80 bedrooms?" Matthew exclaimed. "But then, how many rooms are there?"

"No one knows for sure. There have been so many renovations over the centuries. The family doesn't use the entire house, of course. But the actual number is at least 200, but may be closer to 300," Mary said.

"You can't be serious," Matthew shook his head.

"Oh, but I am," Mary chuckled.

"Then why would your father be opposed to me living at Downton Abbey instead of Crawley House? He could go weeks without even knowing I was there," Matthew asked.

"It's a display of power, Matthew," Mary shook her head. "He wants to show you that you're to do what he says, and live where he tells you to live. He was expecting that you would simply agree without question. But the idea makes no sense at all. Crawley House will suit your mother, but not a future Earl. I imagine that your last letter where you told him you would be moving into Downton Abbey while Isobel used Crawley House amused everyone, except for Papa."

"Well, if he only knew that I had my very own ghost writer; the real voice behind the letters," Matthew smiled.

"I only made some suggestions," Mary said, her tone feigning that of a haughty and defensive woman; "You are your own man."

"And what about your letters? How were they received?" Matthew asked.

"Mama hasn't written back, probably on instructions from Papa," Mary sighed. "I'm clearly not welcome."

Matthew hummed sympathetically. Even though Mary constantly said she didn't care about what her family thought of her, the truth was that a part of her still did.

"But," Mary said, her voice stronger. "Mama doesn't know that I also wrote to Granny. She sent a short note just this week. She will support my return, and she even hinted that she believed it was time to smash the entail."

"If only they knew that the heir presumptive will also vote in favour of you coming back," Matthew smiled.

"Well don't expect that voting on my side will endear you to me, Matthew," Mary teased. "When I arrive, we shall still be at odds, you know."

"Not behind closed doors, we won't be," Matthew shot back. Mary was pleased with his reaction. His melancholy and despair had lightened considerably since his birthday, and he was acting and sounding more like himself.

"Your Granny wouldn't have been spurred into action by the outrage of a certain nobody from Manchester asserting a claim to the Earldom, would she?" Matthew asked pointedly.

"Granny is entirely pragmatic," Mary said with a smile. "She couldn't do anything to save me from James and Patrick, but she wants to try and fight my corner against the usurper from the north."

"Well, if it's a barbarian that you want," Matthew said playfully.

"Matthew!" Mary hissed, glancing over to the open door.

"Mother is still at work, darling," Matthew said confidently. "And Davis knows very well to stay away when we're alone together in the house."

"Control yourself!" Mary scolded him, though her grin showed her true feelings. "We're staying over at the hotel next week. You'll have free reign over me then, not a moment sooner."

"Tormentor," Matthew growled, leering at her. "You're enjoying this!"

He got up from his chair, accidently knocking a book over as he rose. He rolled his eyes and retrieved it from the floor.

Mary laughed. "Now that, I did enjoy."

Matthew chuckled. "I'll have you know that you gave me this book," he said ruefully.

"Ah, Goethe," she smiled.

Matthew opened the book to the page marked with a ribbon and showed it to her.

"Ginkgo Biloba," Matthew read aloud.

"_Two which have decided that they should be as one,"_ Mary recited. "You know, I got the idea from this very library. "It was placed on the shelf next to some of your favourites, and so it stood out."

"This one is a much better edition. That one's worn out," Matthew smiled, glancing over at the shelf where his father's copy sat. "Although I think I liked your other gift better. Each of us keeping a gingko leaf as we go to Downton."

Mary smiled in acknowledgment. "It's as though we have a hidden secret that no one else knows about."

"We seem to have several," Matthew smiled, giving her a chaste kiss.

When he pulled back, Mary ran her hand across his shoulder. "Well, shall we continue?"

"Excuse me, sir," Davis called from the door.

"Yes, Davis?" Matthew asked, turning around as Mary discreetly stepped away from him to a respectful distance.

"Your…package has arrived, sir," Davis said.

Matthew's eyes lit up. "Has it been assembled, Davis?"

"Yes, sir. It's waiting for you behind the house."

"Thank you, Davis," Matthew nodded.

He turned to Mary and offered her his arm.

"Matthew?" she frowned in confusion. "What is this?"

"I have a lesson of my own now, Mary," he smiled.

She took his arm and followed him out the library and through the house. Mary grew more curious as they reached the back door. Guiding her out to the porch, Matthew took her through the gate and into the private lane that ran behind the house.

"Well," he said as they came to a stop just beside the house. "What do you think?"

She stared at the contraption that was perched against the fence. She was at a loss for words for one of the rare times in her life.

"Brand new 1913 Model No. 2 Lady's Special Premier," Matthew said, casting his arm in the direction of the new bicycle.

"All right," Mary said softly. "And what is it doing here?"

Matthew chuckled, "I'm going to even the score," he said mischievously.

"I'm not sure I want to know what you mean about that," Mary said as he leaned over and pecked her affectionately on the cheek.

"You are teaching me things that I need to know for our coming venture. But, I desire to teach you something too."

Mary rolled her eyes at his beaming grin but did not resist when he put his arms around her waist and pulled her to him.

"Do you like the bicycle?" He asked eagerly.

"It is the nicest bicycle anyone has ever given me," Mary stated frankly, rolling her eyes.

"Don't worry about anything," Matthew said, "My father taught me it is all about momentum, and that my dear you have in spades."

Mary never imagined having to learn to ride a bicycle, or any scenario where she would actually use such a skill. However, Matthew was right in that today and the days ahead were all about learning new lessons, and so she decided to move forward with her husband in this curious task.

"I think that mastering your riding skills on a horse would be more productive," she teased as he brought the bicycle over and held it steady in front of her.

"Forget Downton for a moment, darling," Matthew smiled. "Let's just have some fun."

* * *

_**The Midland Hotel, Pearl Suite, Manchester, England**__**, September 1913**_

* * *

"Have you shared the news of your coming liberation with Lady Philomena and Lord Merton?" Matthew smiled, watching Mary rub cream into her hands.

"Of course not," Mary huffed, rising from the vanity and coming over to him, a playful look on her face. "I don't think I've said two words to that woman in the past three months or longer. As for Lord Merton, telling him anything is as good as telling Papa directly, and I wouldn't want that."

Matthew chuckled as she came to bed and kissed him softly.

"I'll pack my things and leave when she's out at one of her appointments. With any luck, I'll be in Yorkshire before Lord Merton is alerted I'm gone," Mary smiled.

"Well, you have become rather adept at slipping in and out of homes, darling," Matthew laughed.

"All for your benefit, thank you," Mary rolled her eyes. "Do not make me sound like a vagabond or a squatter, Matthew."

"Are you looking forward to being back in your home?" he asked, pulling her close to him.

"I'm looking forward to all sort of things," she quirked her eyebrow, then kissed him again, her tongue meeting his playfully. She slapped at his hands as they moved towards her breasts.

"Patience, darling," she drawled. "This is our last evening here. I want to enjoy it."

"I thought that was my intention," Matthew said.

"Matthew," she scolded him lightly. "What I meant was this will be our last night together for some time, our last evening as proper husband and wife."

Matthew's head dropped.

"I know," he admitted. "I still don't understand it, but I know."

"I already told you. You can blame my grandfather, or perhaps his grandfather," Mary sighed, running her hand up and down his bare arm. "They shared the same archaic view of women and the same paranoia – a dangerous mix."

"I'll need to see this damn document for myself the moment I arrive," Matthew said fiercely. "To have the gall to play with people's lives like that…I understand why your grandfather had your mama agree to bind her money to the Estate. As unfair as that is, it would ensure the survival of the Earldom. The other things though, it's reprehensible." Matthew shook his head.

"Well you can thank Grandpapa for one thing," Mary smiled. "Papa will be forced to work hand-in-hand with you, just as he did with Cousin James to my detriment. And that shall be the weapon that you can use against him."

"Ironic, isn't it?" Matthew smiled, leaning over and kissing her neck. "That the instrument used against you will now be wielded to resurrect you?"

"It would be poetic if not for the other thing," Mary sighed, patting her husband's back to calm his passion momentarily.

Matthew felt his heartbeat increase as he felt violent rage. The law was supposed to help people. That was at least what he had always believed about his occupation as a solicitor. But, he had been wrong; he had been living in a dream. When manipulated, the law could be damaging and hurtful apparently, or so the Earls of Grantham had thought anyway.

"So," Matthew spat incredulously, "Your grandfather did not care if the heir to the Earl of Grantham slept with as many whores and strumpets as he could find, but the moment that marriage was contemplated, his bride had to be a pure virgin?"

"Of course," Mary replied. "Men are allowed such indulgences without consequence, even after they marry. Grandfather knew as well as anyone that marriage is a long business for our sort of people. To have the Countess of Grantham exposed as a fallen woman, or to have her escapades and scandals revealed would be a blight on the family reputation. So, he made sure that would not happen without severe consequences."

"I still don't see why I can't just refuse to abide by it?" Matthew demanded. "Why can't I just march into Downton Abbey and declare you as my wife? I'll tell your Papa proudly that I'm setting a new standard, beginning a new era."

"No," Mary said gently. "You," she paused, "We," she said confidently, "would ruin everything. You can't ignore the terms of the entail, Matthew, and you can't unilaterally change it at your own whim. Papa would force you to divorce me, and they'd send me away again. We'd be right back here, which would defeat the entire purpose of going back to Downton in the first place," Mary said, looking into his eyes. "I'm still not entirely sure about your plan, but we shouldn't do anything to cripple ourselves before it even begins."

"Mary, I don't care about any of that," Matthew said, gently tugging her face back towards his. "You're not a harlot. What some old booby in London says about what you've done means nothing to me."

"I know," Mary smiled bravely. "But even you can't erase what happened that night. You'll see. Papa, Mama, even Edith. Every time they look at me, they'll see a slut who took a Turk of all people as a lover."

"But you didn't!" Matthew roared. "It was Patrick that…"

"Shh," Mary hissed. "I don't want to hear his name. Please, Matthew. I agreed to your plan because I love you. I decided to go back to Downton because you asked me to. The only way that any of this has a chance of working is if you follow my advice. You know why I never had our wedding announced or published. I would have screamed it from the rooftops if I could have, but my reputation would have stained you. Clients and your partners would have abandoned you. Now that you're in line to be the next Earl of Grantham, what people think of me is even more dangerous for you. They would make things impossible for you if it was known that you're my husband."

"But, I am your husband!" Matthew almost shouted. "I agreed to keep our marriage private because I don't need an announcement in the papers or even a license to tell me that you're my wife. But when we go to Downton, Mary, when I see the way they'll treat you, how can I hold back? I'm a terrible liar as you've told me countless times."

"You'll have to try, for me," Mary smiled. "It's the only way."

"I love you, Mary," Matthew said desperately. "I didn't think it was possible to love the way that I love you. I'll do what you ask. But when I destroy that damn entail, I will not be restrained for one more second."

"When you destroy the entail," Mary smiled, moving closer to him. "I'll be so happy that you can carry me upstairs naked, regardless of whether Papa minds or not."

"Be careful, I may try it," Matthew arched his eyebrows.

He leaned forward and kissed her softly.

She smiled against his lips and fell back on to the bed, bringing him with her. His hand moved across her shoulder and pulled the strap of her nightgown down her arm, his lips caressing her skin as it was revealed to him.  
"Matthew," Mary gasped in pleasure. "This won't be our last night together, but what if it was?"

Matthew raised his head from her breast and looked at her in alarm. Her eyes were bright; her lips curled in a mischievous smirk.

"Don't play with me," Matthew said thickly. "I don't deserve it. Not from you."

"What if tonight was the last time you could touch me like this?" Mary continued, her body warming in anticipation as she watched his face darken with lust at hearing her scandalous words.

"What if tonight was the last time you could ever be inside of me, Matthew?" she hissed wickedly.

Mary gasped as Matthew pulled at her nightgown; the thin garment falling down her arms and chest and pooling at her hips. Her husband's bare chest covered hers; his skin warm against her breasts, his length pressing insistently along her thigh.

"Then I would make it impossible for you to erase this moment from your memory, Mary," Matthew growled before he captured her mouth and hooked her leg across his hip.


	15. Chapter 15

_**The Midland Hotel, Pearl Suite, Manchester, England, October 1913**_

* * *

"You never wake up before I do."

His voice is a cross between a mumble and a slurred statement and it makes her smile and look over at him. His hair is across his forehead and there's a layer of stubble that frames the cheeky smile that adorns his face. His eyes are closed, and she's thankful for that, as she knows the moment he opens them, there's a very good chance she'll be naked and on top of him before he uses that low tone of voice that always makes her knees buckle.

But there's no time for any of that anymore.

"I suppose it's a comment on which one of us was more tired from last night," she teases. He's lying underneath the bedcovers and she's sitting on top of them, but it's hardly a defence. Cotton sheets are no match for a randy Matthew Crawley.

"That's strange, because by my count, you should be knocked out for hours yet," comes the instant reply and she expects he'll open his eyes soon, because she's blushing fiercely and he loves to make her blush.

"Didn't you know, darling? One of the keys to a happy marriage is to never keep score," she throws back, knowing her face is a shade of pink by now.

He stretches his legs and the movement under the blankets draws her attention.

"I believe that is in reference to who wins more arguments," he says easily, his eyes still closed as he turns on to his front, his arms folding under the pillow. "And I conceded that battle before we were even married. As for the number that I'm referring to, I'll keep counting the times as long as they are in my favour."

She laughs, unable to keep her composure any longer. He joins her, chuckling at the pleasant sound. A year a half ago she was banished by her family, sent away from Downton Abbey in shame and scandal. A year and a half ago she was thrown into a strange house by her Godfather, forced to go to work, of all things, and met Matthew for the first time. A year and a half ago, she thought she would never see Yorkshire ever again. Now, she's in bed with a naked man who happens to be her husband and is about to return to Downton Abbey. She stopped contemplating how ridiculous it all seemed ages ago.

"What?" Matthew asks, his eyes now open, looking at her curiously. "What are you contemplating in that gorgeous head of yours?"

"Stop it," she frowns, but then offers him a teasing smile. "I need to go pack my things and prepare for my departure, and so do you."

"We don't leave for three days, yet, and Lady Philomena and her servants aren't due back until tomorrow," he says. "And this room is paid for until this afternoon."

"Matthew!" she scolds him. "Haven't you had enough?"

"Of you?" he laughs incredulously. His arm is moving beneath the blankets towards her and she squeals, moving back slightly.

"What happened to all your poetic words last night about it being our last time together and how precious it was?" Mary asks, speaking quickly as she can feel him rousing to wakefulness.

"Every time with you is precious, Mary," he says. "Which is why I need to collect as many as possible."

"Matthew!" she protests merrily, her hands on his chest as he pounces over her, kissing her neck, his hands trailing down her sides and cupping her bottom through her silk robe. "Stop! I'm still sore from last night!"

He groans and it sounds adorable to her ears. He stills on top of her, still pressing light kisses to her lips and cheek, holding her in an embrace now as he settles in the crook of her shoulder.

"Truthfully, so am I," he admits, causing her to smile wider. "But please, just stay a while longer. We don't have to do anything. Just stay with me, Mary."

"All right," she accepts, stroking her fingers through his hair and returning his kisses. "I suppose that I could take my bath here."

"A wonderful idea," Matthew grins and she can read his thoughts as if he were reciting them aloud.

"We are not bathing together unless you swear that you will not try to seduce me," she says firmly. "Matthew, in three days we aren't supposed to know each other. You'll do a horrible job of that if you can't keep your hands off me for a few hours."

"I'm quite certain that my hands were not the only ones that were active last night," Matthew replies, undeterred. "Or earlier this morning."

Mary doesn't bother replying. She simply shakes her head and holds him closer. A contented hum escapes her lips and she glances up at the chandelier above their bed, visions of their life in Manchester flying through her mind as they stand on the verge of leaving, possibly forever.

"I still wonder if we're not better off leaving things as they are," she says.

"Mmm," Matthew replies, his eyes closed, his lips still pressed lightly to her neck. "We do have a lovely life here, don't we?"

"We do," Mary nods. "That was what my old life was all about – constantly trying to get more – more money, more attention, more prestige, more of everything. Regardless of what's right or wrong and the great matter and all of the rest of it, I wonder if we're being foolish to risk this for something so uncertain as a life at Downton."

"Well, that would depend on what you consider a risk, I suppose," Matthew says lazily.

"What do you mean?" she frowns. "Of course it's a risk. We could lose everything."

Matthew rises up slightly. He brushes some of her hair back from her face and smiles at her, his blue eyes catching some of the early morning sunlight creeping across the room.

"Darling, we won't lose everything," he nods. "If we are found out, if we fail, if the world rises up against us and we are forsaken, we still won't lose anything of value. We are happy here, of course, and it's a lovely life and many would envy us for it, but there's another life for you, Mary, and I want to try to give it to you. And if it all goes pear shaped, we'll still be together and we'll build another life someplace else. So, there really is no risk at all. Nothing can separate us, truly. You're my wife. The rest is just detail."

He kisses her forehead, then turns away, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stretches out his arms and groans to wake himself, then moves to stand up.

His mouth falls open in shock as Mary walks by him completely naked on her way to the bathroom. He blinks, then follows her slowly, unable to stop himself from staring at her up and down.

"I said that we didn't have to do anything, Mary," he whispers as she bends over the bathtub and turns on the taps. He thinks fleetingly that he may need to let her bathe alone because the sight of her is about to make him come undone.

"Yes, you did," Mary says sultrily, looking back at him over her shoulder, which only serves to arouse him further. "But I never agreed, did I?"

His steps slowly towards the rapidly filling bathtub and the beautiful woman waiting for him.

He may need to ask that their check out time be extended even later.

* * *

_**Downton Village, Yorkshire, England, October 1913**_

* * *

The motor meandered through the streets, the going slow as the road seemed to narrow in places and wind around buildings in others. Matthew peeked out the window and saw villagers going about their business. It was a calm and rather serene day, the sun was bright and warm and there was a pleasant late summer breeze in the air. Even the birds were singing, Matthew noted wryly. Where was he? It was though he had somehow left the train station and passed into a Trollope novel.

The car shook slightly as it ran over another hole in the road. Matthew sighed audibly.

"These roads are terrible," he said as he leaned back in his seat. He was interrupted as another bump in the road made the car shake. "An abomination, really; in Manchester…"

"Although you would make your father rather proud with your admiration for our home, you're rather laying hard on my nerves with your complaining, dear," Isobel said patiently.

Matthew rubbed his brow and pursed his lips. He knew his mother was right. He also knew that his pique had nothing to do with the condition of the road. It had only been several hours since he had parted from Mary back in Manchester and he started missing her from the moment he boarded the train for London. He spent most of the journey to the capital and the transfer to York in a slight panic, knots churning around in his stomach. If he could barely spend a few hours apart from his wife then how in the world was he going to be indifferent to her once they both arrived at Downton Abbey? He didn't know what was more comical – their harebrained plan or the fact that she could still make him feel like a lovesick schoolboy almost two years into their marriage.

"Matthew, I know that you mean to evaluate everything about this place and your position here, but perhaps you could tone down you petulance around me, my dear boy," Isobel smiled.

Matthew gave her a wry smirk in apology.

"After all, I stopped having the responsibility to put up with these moods of yours some time ago. That's now entirely the duty of…" Isobel continued.

"Mother!" Matthew interjected, silencing her. He looked at her pointedly and motioned slightly with his head towards the driver in the front seat.

Isobel's eyes widened in understanding.

"Of…the rest of our new family," she nodded, saying nothing further.

Matthew reached out and patted her hand kindly. It was a lot to ask of his mother to play along with this elaborate scheme. Both of his parents were direct and to the point in everything they did. It was already an Augean task to ask them to hide their knowledge of Mary and Matthew's marriage when they were in Manchester, and accept that their son and his wife would be living apart. To now ask his mother to act as though Mary was merely a nurse's assistant she had met at the hospital a handful of times was quite unfair.

Before Matthew could turn his thoughts back to Mary, the car came to a stop in front of a stately house, with manicured landscaping and gardens, and even a quaint fence in front of it. It was just as Mary described. A home in the Village, but clearly not the same as the cottages they had passed. Matthew took a deep breath. They had undoubtedly reached Crawley House, and no matter Matthew's reservations, the curtain was now being raised.

"Ready, Matthew?" Isobel whispered as the driver got out to walk around to their door.

"Once more unto the breach," Matthew said under his breath.

The door swung open and the driver offered his hand to Isobel. She stepped out carefully and Matthew followed, standing tall and glancing over the property. It was a pleasant looking house, nothing like their home in Manchester, which invited hospitality. This place seemed more formal and detached, almost like a country inn that never changed regardless of who was living inside. Matthew smirked briefly. His mother would change that immediately. As this would be her abode, she would surely stamp her authority over it, and would make it warm and welcoming. Matthew hoped for as much at least. It would be good to have a refuge to escape to whenever living at Downton Abbey put his teeth on edge.

Matthew saw the luggage being unloaded and had to squeeze his hands together to fight the impulse to offer assistance.

"_You're going to be the Earl of Grantham, not some footman,_" Mary had scolded him lightly when she described circumstances where he must never do anything that would be beneath his new stature.

And so Matthew stood aside and watched. He put a hand on his mother's back to coax her forward when she gave numerous instructions regarding her parrot Abel and where the cage was to be placed in the house.

"Welcome to Crawley House," a deep voice intoned as they walked up the path. Matthew swallowed. The sharp eyes, the immaculate hair, the imposing form, and the hawkish nose. This was surely Carson. Matthew flicked his fingers, stilling the impulse to shake the man's hand. He wasn't supposed to know anything about the Crawley family butler, but regardless of Mary's kind words about Carson, it was clear from one glance at the man that he was the very definition of a butler. He exuded professionalism and authority, as though he could count any loose threads in Matthew's day suit and was filing the information away for later use.

"I am Carson, his Lordship's butler," Carson said by way of introduction. His lips formed a perfect line, but his eyes were gazing upon Matthew inquisitively. Matthew swallowed again.

"_It's true that I was terribly fond of him as a girl, and Carson once told me I was his favourite. But what he values most is everything in its place and he will be supremely critical of you, especially at first, given that you're showing up to take a position that he probably thinks should be mine. He wasn't very fond of Cousin James and Patrick at all, and I'd like to think he's still on my side. But he's loyal to Papa and to Downton, so he can't be brought into our confidence, no matter how strong an ally he would be,_" Mary said.

"_Won't he warm to me when he sees how kind I am to you? He can't just assume I'll be the same as Patrick just because I'm your father's heir!_"Matthew complained.

"_He's very set in his ways, darling. He'll need a lot of convincing. Words and platitudes will get you nowhere with him. You'll have to earn his respect through your deeds. So, when you first meet him, act aloof and put on airs. He'll be disappointed that Papa has endorsed you, which will make it easier for me to sway him to my side._"

Matthew stepped forward, his shoulders raised and his chest puffed out. He felt entirely ridiculous.

"Carson," he said haughtily. "You and the staff will address my mother as Mrs. Crawley. Where is the valet that is assigned to her? I shall need to evaluate him before I leave this house."

"Of course, sir. Mr. Moseley is just inside. The maid and cook hired for Mrs. Crawley should be by this afternoon."

"You can tell them to not bother showing up," Matthew said sharply. "My mother's maid and cook from Manchester will be arriving on the 3 o'clock train. Have a motor collect them and send word to me at Downton Abbey once they've arrived."

Carson arched an eyebrow in surprise. "Mr. Crawley, His Lordship has already gone to the trouble of hiring staff for Crawley House."

"His Lordship surely wants both myself and my mother to feel comfortable here, and the easiest way to achieve that is to have our staff from Manchester attend to her. Should there be a problem, I will discuss it with His Lordship, Carson, not with you," Matthew said dismissively.

"Of course, sir," Carson said tightly, nodding his head.

"I expected you would see reason. Now, let's go and meet your Molesley," Matthew continued. "I am quite interested to know what task has kept him so occupied that he did not come outside to greet us, as he ought to have."

Carson kept his lips tight together and went ahead to open the front door. Matthew ushered his mother forward, giving her a stern glare as she seemed ready to admonish him for his rude rebuke to the butler. He steeled himself as they walked into Crawley House, his heart rate spiralling despite his attempts to remain calm. If he was this nervous meeting Carson and Molesley, he would be an absolute wreck once he got to Downton Abbey. He desperately hoped that Mary was on her way.

* * *

_**Train Station, Ripon, Yorkshire, England, October 1913**_

* * *

Mary now owned a watch. The time piece was extremely utilitarian, just a piece of leather for the band and a small oval for the clockwork, and yet it was beautiful. It had been a gift from Dr. Crawley and Isobel. There had been no occasion; it was simply something she needed for her duties as a volunteer nurse. Mary had always allowed other people to instruct her during the day, she had never paid much attention to time. After she was exiled from Downton, when she arrived in Manchester; time had taken on a completely new meaning. At the hospital, it was measured precisely – the times when patients took their medications, when the nursing shifts were changed, or those frantic moments where hesitation could mean the loss of a life.

Mary glanced at her watch as she walked out of the train station. If Matthew's train was on time, he would have reached Crawley House about an hour ago. It would not take too long for him to see Isobel settled. Though Mary suspected that her parents would want to send Edith or Sybil to welcome him and summon him to Downton Abbey for dinner, Mary told him to go to the big house as soon as it was practicable. Though they would be surprised that he took the initiative to go to them, her family would make do and spend time with him leading up to the ringing of the dressing gong. It was crucial that Matthew take them by surprise, and also that he be there in the afternoon.

Calculating how long she remembered the trip took from Ripon by motor, Mary looked about and settled upon a kind looking older man standing in front of his taxi cab. She approached him and nodded slightly.

"Good afternoon, Miss," he smiled, tipping his cap. "May I have the pleasure of transporting you somewhere today?"

"Please," Mary smiled politely. He held open the door for her, then assisted the porter to load her trunk in the boot of the taxi. He came around and settled into the driver's seat and looked back at her.

"And where shall we be going today, young lady?" he asked.

Mary smiled at the term he used for her. "Downton, please."

"Oh, Downton," the man frowned slightly. "I'm sorry, young lady, but you could have just stayed on the train. The next stop is Downton."

"It was getting too stuffy on board," Mary replied easily. "I thought I'd take a drive instead."

"And I am glad that you did," the driver nodded. He put the car in gear and eased away from the train station.

Mary watched as familiar buildings and streets passed. She thought of a similar ride, when Taylor drove her to the train station the last time she was in Yorkshire. She did not wish to risk running into anyone who may recognize her by riding the train all the way to Downton, and the ride from Ripon would give her the time to collect her thoughts.

"Where in the Village would you like me to deliver you, young lady?" the driver asked.

"I'm not going to the Village, actually. You can bring me to Downton Abbey," Mary said calmly.

"Oh, Downton Abbey!" the driver answered. "You must be going to some big affair that Lady Grantham is hosting, then?"

"It's more of a private party with a few select guests," Mary replied.

"Ah, I see," the driver said. "There's news that the new heir is coming to Yorkshire any day now. The next Lord Grantham he'll be. The house must be all abuzz at that."

"I expect so," Mary nodded, grateful the driver was watching the road and could not see her smirk. She glanced out the window as the landscape grew more familiar. The day of her return, the sun was shining.

"Suppose it's a good time to be visiting, then," the driver mused. "Maybe you'll get a chance to see the heir up close, be in the same room with the next Earl!"

Mary grinned. "Maybe," she said. "No matter what happens, I'm sure I'll remember this visit for a very long time."

* * *

_**Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, September 1913**_

* * *

"I must apologize for Carson," Robert said easily. "Cora was going to have Edith come down and welcome you and your mother properly, invite you up to the house for dinner. There was no need for you to come up so soon after your arrival. I'm sure the trip was tiring for you."

"Not at all," Matthew replied. "I was eager to get here, to see my new home. Once I was satisfied that Mother was settled, I wanted to come up immediately."

"Well, you're here," Robert smiled. "Before I show you the paintings, you must allow me to offer you a fitting libation."

Robert stopped at the bar, a bounty of promising liquors, many obviously expensive, stood before him. He swept his hand across the array, turning to Matthew for his order.

Matthew took his time perusing the drinks, Mary's instructions again ringing in his mind.

"Do you have any Elderberry wine?" he asked nonchalantly.

"A fine choice," Robert smiled, turning and pouring two glasses. "You know, elderberries have grown on the grounds for over a century. We send a few shipments each year to friends of mine in the winemaking business. I've always been told that the stock is so good we should consider harvesting and selling more, but you know that strikes me as a bit too commercial. I like keeping parts of Downton just for us."

"It's as if it's our own little secret," Matthew said, taking a sip of the wine. He already knew all about the elderberries. Mary had told him, and instructed him to ask about the wine, knowing it would endear Matthew to her father and also make him appear a bit uninformed, which she knew Lord Grantham would enjoy as well.

"Yes, I suppose it is," Robert smiled, pleased at the comment. After an hour of touring the house with his new heir, Lord Grantham had to admit that he was enjoying the young man's company. He was intelligent and thoughtful, and displayed none of the tendencies that Lord Merton had warned him about. Of course, he was rather simple judging by his suit, and there was much he needed to learn, but Robert liked that. Unlike James and Patrick, Matthew Crawley was a clean slate, and Robert had plenty to write.

"And now on to the portraits of our ancestors," Robert said eagerly. "You must make their acquaintance."

"Yes, I'm looking forward to seeing the first Earl especially," Matthew said jovially. "I've read his name was Daniel and so I feel I am in good company."

Robert was silent at this remark, the meaning lost on him.

"In what way?" he asked carefully.

"Daniel," Matthew explained. "Meaning _God is my judge_, whereas my own name means _gift of God_. It seems confirmation after all that we are related."

"That's a bit of a stretch, Matthew, wouldn't you say?" Robert smirked. "It isn't particularly important what anyone's name is, compared to the value of one's title."

Matthew remained quiet, the Earl's words shocking him.

"Well, then I guess it is fortunate that all of us will have one of those as well," he remarked.

Robert looked at Matthew inquisitively as they walked. No, his heir had not yet shown any stubbornness or wilfulness, but he did have a strange manner about him, an odd air. Robert decided it was due to him being in a new environment. This wasn't his class, and there was very little about Downton Abbey that he could possibly relate to. The young man's mind was probably swimming with the elegance of the place. Robert smiled to himself as they continued on. He sometimes forgot how impressive Downton could be to someone who hadn't lived here his entire life.

"I know that your mother accompanied you here, and I am looking forward to introducing her to the rest of the family," Robert said. "But what about any other of your relations? Aunts, uncles, cousins? Perhaps we should organize something for them to come down as well, to see the new life that you've been given."

"Both of my parents had very small families, actually," Matthew replied. "There are cousins on my mother's side, and no one else on my father's side, at least no one that you don't already know anyway."

"I see," Robert nodded. "And what about you, Matthew? I expect it was hard for you to say goodbye to your friends and colleagues in Manchester? I regret uprooting you, but there was really no alternative."

"You gave me enough time to get my affairs in order," Matthew nodded. "My old law firm was sorry to see me go, but we were only work colleagues in the end. We didn't socialize outside of the office."

"That's probably wise," Robert smiled. "You'll find that keeping up with Society can take a substantial amount of effort."

Matthew nodded politely.

"And do you have anyone special back in Manchester?" Robert asked awkwardly.

"No," Matthew answered. "I was rather busy with work and trying to make a name for myself at my law firm. There wasn't much time for…romance."

"Ah," Robert said. Well, at least Lord Merton had gotten something right. Apparently his comment that Matthew went to the office and went straight home afterward was accurate.

Robert smiled as they reached the gallery. "I'll be able to show you the Third Earl, from whom we are related," he said. "It's curious, isn't it? How the discovery of a distant ancestor can change one's fate?"

Matthew nodded. "Ever since Lord Merton gave my father the news of our new family, I've been trying to learn more about our ancestor. Actually, I was able to find a family heirloom that my father was given many years ago, and to which he only recently found out the significance."

Matthew reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and took out a small box. He opened it, showing Robert a gold signet ring.

"This belonged to the first Earl Daniel's third son, my grandfather Lionel's great-grandfather. My father always kept it as it is inscribed with the Crawley family motto, _omnia mutantur, nihil interit_. He didn't know it's true provenance."

Matthew held up the ring and offered it to Robert for inspection. He could see the Earl's attention was engaged as his fingers traced over the fine engraving. Matthew would of course not tell Robert that his father had _never_ worn the ring; in fact he had not cared at all about its significance. It had been Mary's idea to see if they could find something that would link their different worlds together, and his mother's carefully labelled and arranged attic that had made it possible. Matthew had to force himself not to smile as he pictured how much amusement this scene would have offered his father, not to mention Mary.

"_Everything changes, nothing perishes_," Robert said as he translated the engraving. "That is a very old Crawley motto, we've used different creeds lately, but I recognize the original. I'm pleased that you take your family history so seriously." He offered the ring back.

"Keep it, Lord Grantham," Matthew nodded respectfully. "It should be yours now, as it truly belongs here at Downton Abbey, among all the past Earls."

Matthew's stomach churned with the effort it took not to grimace at his own platitudes. He didn't know what was worse – appearing to be so ingratiating to Lord Grantham, or the fact that, as Mary predicted, the Earl was eating it all up voraciously.

"_My father cannot accept a gift. Even during birthdays and anniversaries while he would expect us to organize a party he wanted no tokens of the day itself. I used to think it was a sign of humility and I admired it. However, I wonder now if it's not because he hates the idea of being beholden to anyone, that he will need to reciprocate in turn at some point in the future. Papa hates to be in anyone's debt, and would avoid owing you anything as you're his heir and should only be grateful to him. So, let's give him this ring and see how he reacts to you." _

"I couldn't possibly accept this ring from you," Robert shook his head vigorously. "Although, if you wish, we could display it here when we have parties and the like. It would make an interesting conversation piece I think, and it would be understood that it belongs to you and will stay with you."

"I'd rather it be known as belonging to the family," Matthew said.

"No," Robert answered rather sharply. "My mind is quite made up," he handed the ring back to Matthew. "I could never take something so precious to you, something that reminds you of your father, who is now gone; it is only right that you should keep it. After all, I own everything else around here. You can keep that ring."

Matthew accepted the ring back and replaced it in his pocket.

"Thank you, my Lord," he replied.

Robert nodded as they stopped in front of the painting of the First Earl.

"Please, Matthew, you must call me Robert," he said. "You are my heir, after all. There are many people who do not use my title who should, but I think I can allow you this perk of not having to be so formal."

"Very well, Robert," Matthew said with some hesitation.

"Now, let me present to you the First Earl," Robert said raising his hand towards the portrait.

* * *

"Have you seen the new heir?" Sybil asked.

"You know that I haven't," Edith replied in a bored tone. "I've been home all afternoon."

"I thought you were supposed to go summon him here for dinner?" Sybil said in confusion.

"I was, but before the time came for me to leave, Mama came running in and said he'd come up to the house already. That's why we're up here. We're not to see him while he's walking around with Papa, and we'll all meet him at the same time before dinner," Edith explained.

"I hope he's nice, and pleasant to talk to," Sybil sighed.

"What does it matter?" Edith said. "How much talking did you ever do with Cousin James and Cousin Patrick?"

"I know that you spoke to Cousin Patrick quite often," Sybil retorted. "I just want him to be interesting. He's going to be living here and we'll be seeing a lot of him. It would help if he wasn't entirely boring."

"He's from Manchester, Sybil," Edith rolled her eyes as she put her book down. "How interesting could he be?"

"I don't know. Manchester is bigger than Downton, anyway," Sybil said. "I can't help thinking that for the first while that Cousin Matthew is here, I'll be thinking about Mary."

"Sybil, not again," Edith rolled her eyes.

"How can you be so heartless?" Sybil frowned. "I know that the two of you rarely got along, but she's still our sister, Edith!"

"Sybil, it's time that you realized that we'll never see Mary ever again," Edith said patiently. "I will admit that it's not what I want, and I still feel terrible over the way that Mary was sent away, but Papa won't allow any of us to contact her again, Sybil. Your writing to her was already bad enough, and now Papa won't even permit that."

"I just miss her so much," Sybil said quietly. "Do you think that Cousin Matthew would ever invite her back when he becomes the Earl?"

"Sybil, that could be decades from now," Edith shook her head. "And why would Cousin Matthew even entertain the thought? He doesn't know Mary, and he has no reason to want her here."

"I don't care how long it takes," Sybil said firmly. "I'll see Mary back here one day, mark my words."

"Don't hold your breath over it," Edith said. "Besides, Mary's living in Manchester now. She has a life there, Sybil. Who knows where she'll be or if we'll even know how to reach her years from now?"

Sybil huffed in exasperation. She got up from her bed and went over to her window. She looked out on to the grounds below. The weather had been somewhat overcast and cold the past days, but the sun was out now, brilliant and bright.

"Was Taylor sent to fetch Granny?" Sybil asked.

"No, Granny's been here since luncheon," Edith said. "With our having dinner with the new heir, she didn't see the purpose of going home and coming back."

"Ah," Sybil said, frowning as she looked into the distance. "Is there anyone else coming to dinner then?"

"Not that I know of," Edith replied. "It's just the family. Why?"

"Well, there's a taxi coming down the driveway," Sybil noted.

"A taxi? Why would anyone invited to dinner need a taxi?" Edith asked.

"I don't know," Sybil said. "Let's go and see. I'm tired of staying up here."

"Mama said we're to stay here and wait for the gong," Edith said. "She doesn't want us to see Cousin Matthew before dinner."

"Well if I see him, I'll turn away," Sybil declared. "Come on, Edith."

"If anyone asks, I'll say it was your idea," Edith smiled, getting up and taking her younger sister's arm as they left the room.

* * *

Mary did not know what to expect to see when the taxi turned on to the familiar long driveway. Though she'd be gone for nearly two years, little if anything, would have changed about the estate's grounds. She saw glimpses of the vast fields, the tall trees and of course the big house rising as they approached. She was filled with a desire to sneak over to the stables and saddle Diamond, taking her horse out across the grounds and reacquainting herself with the Temple of Diana and the other follies and landmarks across the lands, the lands she had grown up on. Despite how horrible her banishment had been, she did not feel any resentment upon seeing Downton Abbey. It was not the house or the grounds that had hurt her.

Her pulse quickened as more of the home came into view the closer they approached. She still carried scars from what happened to her here. She knew out of her family, only Sybil and her Granny would be happy to see her. She expected Carson to be stoic as always but to be glad she was back. But, what about the others? Mrs. Hughes thought she was spoiled before. Would the circumstances of her departure have changed that? Would Anna be glad for her return, or would she see it as an imposition, another drain on her time?

Truthfully, Mary was somewhat worried she would be able to resume her old manner as well. She knew her time in Manchester had an effect on her, but it was more than that. It was Matthew. Matthew had changed her. His love. His support. There were parts to her history at Downton Abbey that she hadn't told him, that she was not very proud of. Would she slip back into those old habits now that she was here? She had warned him that she would be somewhat insufferable as part of their act, but would it be entirely an act if she carried herself in the way she had before?

Mary carried scars from her past, and by returning here, she was about to reopen them.

_"Scars are beautiful," _Dr. Crawley had once told her in the earliest days of their acquaintance_._

_"I know that sounds odd. But, a scar is more than an ugly and offensive jagged blemish on our flesh. It is proof of victory. A scar signifies something that happened to us, but that we overcame and persevered through. It is a mark that this person can't be taken for granted, that this person is a survivor. The scar tells that story. It should be cherished; at least that is my outlook."_

Mary brushed her fingers at her moist eyes. Sentimentally was no longer permitted and she quickly composed herself. The best tribute she could make to her father-in-law was to support Matthew in his plan and play her role. If they were successful, she envisioned going back to Manchester and visiting Dr. Crawley's grave, telling him all about the adventures that she, Matthew and Isobel had in Yorkshire, and assuring him that Matthew had kept his promise, and she had been restored.

Mary watched Downton Abbey now loom in front of the taxi. She was far from religious, but she still believed that Dr. Crawley was watching over her and Matthew, and he was, like them, anticipating what was to come.

* * *

"Test the soup again," Mrs. Patmore snarled at Daisy. "The last thing we want is for the heir presumptive to think we can't flavour a soup right."

"Mrs. Patmore seems a bit on edge," Bates smiled, sipping his coffee.

"You know how she gets when a distinguished visitor comes to eat," Anna smiled at him. "And this one's here to stay."

"Then she shouldn't worry. Even if the soup is no good, she'll have plenty more chances to make it better," Bates said.

"Has His Lordship told you who will be taking care of Mr. Crawley?" Anna asked.

"I assume it'll be Thomas," Bates replied. "Thomas will probably try to stick him with me so he can move in on His Lordship."

"But you won't allow that, will you?" Anna frowned.

"If I'm honest, I probably wouldn't mind," Bates admitted. "He'll be the next Earl of Grantham. I'm grateful for His Lordship's loyalty and generosity, but I can't exactly complain if I'm assigned to his heir, now, can I?"

Mrs. Hughes came into the kitchen, glanced around quickly, then approached them.

"Ah, Mr. Bates, Anna," she nodded. "You can both go up. Her Ladyship wants everything to go perfectly this evening, and so you'll both need to get His Lordship and Lady Edith and Lady Sybil ready as quick as you can. You can wait in the Great Hall and when the gong sounds, go right up."

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes," Anna nodded. She walked towards the stairs.

Bates finished his coffee and put it down on the table. He followed after Anna, trying not to be too obvious as he watched her hips sway as she walked up the stairs ahead of him.

* * *

"My Lady, begging your pardon."

"Yes, O'Brien? What is it?" Cora asked, looking over her earrings.

"It's Lady Edith and Lady Sybil, my Lady," O'Brien said. "I saw them heading towards the stairs as I was carrying the clean towels to Your Ladyship's bathroom."

"What? But I told them to stay upstairs while His Lordship gave Cousin Matthew the tour of the house," Cora frowned.

"Yes, my Lady. It seems they found a reason to go downstairs. I thought you'd like to know."

"Thank you, O'Brien," Cora sighed, rising from her vanity and walking towards the door. "I'll go a fetch them before my husband discovers they've been let loose."

* * *

Matthew looked at the clock on the fireplace mantle. Mary told him that the dressing gong was rang precisely at six o'clock each evening. It was now half past five and there was no sign of her. If she didn't arrive before he was forced to go up and change, then there was a risk that Robert could intercept her before he came back down. Matthew needed to be present when Mary surprised everyone. If she was early, that was fine as Matthew was with Robert. Even if she was late, as long as Matthew was at the dinner table with the rest of the family, he could protect her. But if she arrived outside of those times, their plan would be off to a howling start.

"Any questions, Matthew?" Robert asked. "I know it's a lot to take in."

"I'm quite impressed," Matthew nodded. "I was actually wondering if I might see a copy of the entail at some point."

"Ah, of course," Robert said. "I was going to say there was no point boring yourself with the minutiae of it, but of course, you're lawyer. I'm sure you're used to such documents."

"A small bit, yes," Matthew said carefully. "I admit that it's in my nature to want to read everything whenever there is such an instrument involved. The duties and obligations given to us can depend greatly on the precise word used."

"You want to be sure that you're truly inheriting all of this and not just a pig farm," Robert chuckled.

"I'm sorry, Robert," Matthew held up his hands. "I meant no offence."

"And none was taken, Matthew," Robert smiled. "You can see the entail soon. But, for now I hope you can be content if I show you the library."

Matthew smiled as Robert escorted them out of the room. They would need to cross the Great Hall to get to the library. At worst, Matthew would be within earshot and standing close to Robert when Mary arrived. Now she just had to get here, he thought worriedly.

* * *

"I understand that you had a young woman under your direction," Violet said. "My granddaughter, Lady Mary."

"Mary is your granddaughter?" Isobel asked. "Oh! From Yorkshire, of course!"

Violet looked at Isobel curiously.

"I'm sorry, Cousin Violet. I never knew that Mary was part of your family, you see. The patron for our hospital, Lord Merton, told Matthew several months ago that Mary was from Yorkshire, but we were never told anything else about her."

"Well I suppose the opportunity never presented itself," Violet smiled politely. "And Mary never spoke of us?"

"No," Isobel shook her head. "I like to give my staff as much freedom as possible. If they wish to confide in me, they are welcome to, but we are colleagues more than friends. Mary never volunteered any information, and I never asked."

"Ah," Violet nodded.

Isobel sipped her tea. While there was a strange sense of fun at play acting and reciting the lines that Matthew and Mary had taught her, Isobel still found it a bit tiring to keep the stories straight between the script that she was to recite and the true story that she already knew.

"Did Matthew ever have reason to come visit you at the hospital? Did he ever meet Mary?" Isobel asked.

"Matthew came by the hospital almost every day; he was very close to his father. The three of us would often walk home together," Isobel said. "But I don't think he ever saw Mary. I don't remember introducing them. I believe the first time he ever met her was at my husband's funeral, and that was not a meeting in any event. I told him to go fetch her as I needed to give her instructions for some patients."

"So Mary has never met Matthew before," Violet said. "A strange world, isn't it? Being so close to someone each day and not even knowing you're related?"

"Well, Mary would be Matthew's fourth cousin," Isobel said. "That's hardly a relation, is it?"

"No, I suppose that in practice, it isn't," Violet said.

"Carson, are we expecting anyone? It appears that there's a motor coming up the lane," Violet frowned, glancing out the window.

"Not that I am aware of, my Lady," Carson frowned, looking out the window himself.

Isobel silently said a small prayer of thanks. Mary had arrived, and not a moment too soon from the looks of it.

"Cousin Violet, would you mind if we took a short walk? I'm afraid I have a hard time staying seated for an extended period and I'll need to stretch my legs a bit if I'm to make it through dinner," Isobel smiled.

"Certainly!" Violet nodded. "A quick stroll would do us both well."

Isobel followed Carson and the Dowager Countess towards the Great Hall.

* * *

"Here we are, young lady," the driver announced. "Downton Abbey".

Mary paid the man and quickly exited from the taxi. She checked her watch again and hoped that the dining schedule had not changed in the time she'd been away. The dressing gong would not have sounded yet, but the servants would all be scrambling to prepare for Matthew's welcome dinner. This would hopefully allow Mary to get past whoever answered the door without having to face Carson. Though she cared for the butler, she knew that Carson would follow her Papa's direction and would likely try and keep her stuck in the Great Hall while Lord Grantham was summoned. She needed to have free reign over the house to be able to reach Matthew, wherever he was.

The driver removed her trunk and placed it on the ground. She thanked him and watched as he drove off slowly, the gravel spinning slightly under the wheels of the taxi. Mary didn't look up at the house right away. Instead, her eyes were drawn to her trunk. Everything she owned that was important to her fit into this one large box. The clothes that she had rarely worn in Manchester might be useful once again; and there were the new outfits she had selected, or had been given by Matthew. Her sentimental presents were tucked safely inside. She had debated wearing the same outfit today as she'd worn on the day she was sent away, but decided that was a bit too melodramatic. This was a new beginning, and so she chose a light dress that Matthew had bought her, blue with white accents around the neck and sleeves. The burgundy hat that she paired with the outfit was a present from Isobel on her birthday. Mary felt it appropriate to be armed with clothes from her husband and mother-in-law as they entered Downton Abbey together.

Taking a deep breath, Mary held her head up high and stepped to the door, ringing the bell firmly.

Mary felt a slight rush of pride as Barrow's shocked face greeted her. He seemed surprised and intrigued at seeing her. Mary took the opportunity to walk past him, through the inner door and into the Great Hall, giving instructions as she went.

"Barrow, my trunk is outside. Please see that it is brought upstairs. If my bedroom is not available, please have Mrs. Hughes arrange something equally befitting for me at once."

Mary did not bother waiting for his reply or his reaction. She was already into the Great Hall by the time he recovered.

"Of course. Right away, Milady," he said before turning and going outside.

Mary could not have orchestrated the scene any better if she'd told each of the others in advance where they were to go and when. All at once it seemed that everyone had congregated in the Great Hall.

Sybil and Edith had just reached the bottom of the stairs when they made eye contact with her. Sybil grinned in surprise. Edith simply stared with her mouth open.

Granny came in from the parlour with Isobel. Violet Crawley started in shock, her cane stomping on the floor loudly. Isobel allowed the hint of a smile to cross her lips, then stood calmly by.

Carson's eyes went wider than Mary had ever seen before. His mouth opened slightly then he closed it immediately.

Anna and Bates came up from the servants' area downstairs. Anna saw her first and she smiled in surprise. Bates blinked and stopped in his tracks.

"Sybil! Edith! What are you two doing? I specifically told you not to…"

Cora stopped halfway up the stairs, seeing Mary standing there, all eyes upon her. Cora's face paled and a startled "Oh!" escaped her mouth.

But the reaction Mary wanted came as she heard voices to her right.

"I'm afraid that Lord Merton did not mention everyone to me," Matthew said as they approached the Great Hall. "You have three daughters, is that right?"

"Yes," Robert said tightly. "You'll meet Edith and Sybil tonight."

"And your other daughter?" Matthew asked innocently. "Is she here?"

Matthew watched as the Earl tensed at the mention of Mary.

"No," Robert said coldly. "My eldest daughter will not be at dinner tonight. She does not live here anymore, which is a good thing; but I'd rather not discuss the details."

Matthew jumped in immediately.

"Does she live in London then?" he asked. "Perhaps I'll see her during the season? I wouldn't want there to be anyone in your family that I do not know, Robert. Both the discovery of our relation and my arrival is probably a surprise to some, and I'd like to know everyone. That way we can be comfortable together, a true family."

"You won't need to meet her," Robert said dismissively. "It was my choice for her to leave this house, and she won't be returning. I know that you want us all to be comfortable with you under the circumstances, and your consideration is appreciated. But, when it comes to my eldest daughter, you need not concern yourself. All that matters is that I can see that you are a fine upstanding young man with a very bright future ahead of you. Because of that, I would never risk putting you anywhere near her."

They came into the Great Hall and Robert frowned as he saw Cora and his daughters on the stairs. He was about to motion for Cora to bring the girls back upstairs and away from Matthew when he saw his mother, Cousin Isobel and Carson standing across the Great Hall near the entrance to the parlour. His eyes and mind slowly noticed some of the servants nearby as well.

Whatever was going on?

Matthew sensed her presence before he actually saw her. He turned his head in the second after Robert made his condemnation, never even mentioning Mary by name, and there she was. She was gorgeous, and their eyes met briefly before she focused on her father.

"You would never risk putting him anywhere near who, Papa?" Mary asked with a beatific smirk.


End file.
